


Focal Point

by PuffleLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Bisexual John Watson, Blow Jobs, Brief mention of depression and PTSD symptoms, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Dancing, Different reunion, Drag!lock, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Idiots in Love, It's For a Case, John has a foul mouth in his head, John has a hidden talent, John's Inner Monologue, Love Confessions, M/M, Mention of torture, Mentioned Mary Morstan, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John Watson, Pining John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Rimming, Sad Wank, Scars, Sherlock in Makeup, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Top!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-07-28 23:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16252448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuffleLock/pseuds/PuffleLock
Summary: John comes home early from a medical conference to find that every once in awhile, Sherlock can surprise the hell out of him.Can John surprise him back?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First time poster.....  
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.  
> Please be gentle...

It took a lot to faze John. He lived a strange and ridiculous life where it was commonplace to have (intentionally) rotting human organs and appendages in the fridge nestled next to the milk, where you had to be careful when you opened anything from out of the cabinets because containers was just as likely to contain sugar as some deadly chemical, where a lazy Sunday morning reading the paper in front of the fire could easily be interrupted by a desperate Detective Inspector asking for help at some grisly crime scene, where he had a first aid kit in the bathroom closet stocked better than many A&E due to the sheer number of close calls and life-threatening situations he and his mad genius of a flatmate (whom John was just a little bit madly in love with) got themselves into, and where, by the way, that mad genius of a flatmate quite nearly literally rose from the grave six months ago after two years gone.  
  
So, he wasn’t terribly alarmed, as he entered the front door of Baker Street, to hear said mad flatmate hollering loudly followed by the sound of something being thrown against a wall. _At least it didn’t sound like anything too fragile,_ John thought. He could read Sherlock’s yells, hollers, sighs of exasperation, eye-rolls and all other manner of non-verbal communication pretty well after all these years, and he didn’t think what he heard was any emergency, more likely a shout of irritation.  
  
_That was the “something didn’t go as planned” yell.  Probably some bloody mould experiment not come out exactly how he expected._  
  
It was just after 12:30 on a beautiful Friday afternoon; John was coming back a day earlier than expected from a week-long conference in Dublin. The keynote speaker had cancelled due to a family emergency, so John had decided to skip out on the last day of mingling and networking B.S. and get back. He missed Baker Street, missed home.  
  
_Missed Sherlock…God, I hated being away from ... No… John, stop it… just fucking stop it._  
  
He hadn’t told Sherlock he’d be coming home early. He didn’t have the chance to surprise Sherlock often, and he wanted to see if Sherlock would’ve been able to guess ( _‘scuse me…. deduce)_ from their limited text messages the night before, that he’d be home early. From the sounds upstairs, he figured he must have won this little contest with himself. Sherlock made it a habit to either be out of the flat or eerily quiet when John came back from long trips; like a teenager who had had a party while his parents were away, and he was trying not to raise suspicion; which for Sherlock, was suspicious in and of itself. Since Sherlock likely was never one to have had any big blow-out mid-90’s teen movie style parties at any point in his life, let alone now, his absence or quiet was due to him not wanting to give away whatever thing he did that John would’ve nagged or yelled at him for, had he been there.  
  
He hauled himself and his two bags up the seventeen steps to the flat; the door was shut, and locked, which was unusual this time of day. John heard the door to the bathroom slam shut as he searched for his key. _Great, he probably made a mess I’m going to have to clean._ John was quiet when he entered, not terribly keen on facing an irritated, blustering Sherlock and god knows what mess he’d left for him to clean up. John was surprised, though, when he looked around the flat as he was setting his bags down next to his chair and saw nothing horribly out of place. Yeah, the flat was cluttered, but that was normal. There were no experiments of unmentionable things taking over the kitchen table, the microwave was still appeared to be in one piece ( _it’s even reading the right time!)_ , no smell of smoke _(tobacco or otherwise)_ lingering in the air, no near-avalanche of half-drunk tea cups teetering everywhere in the sitting room. The lack of anything blatantly wrong was actually more worrying to John. _What the bloody hell was he yelling about then? There’s no blood or broken …. well, anything, so that’s good… I guess._  
  
He listened for sounds coming from the bathroom and only heard music. John assumed Sherlock was listening to something playing from his phone but couldn’t hear what. John could only hear faintly the quiet melody, but it wasn’t familiar. _Definitely not classical, and that’s the only thing I’ve had ever heard Sherlock listen to before. Huh, he likes something not so posh, what do ya know?  It’s pretty, whatever it is…  A little sad really_ , John thought as he went over to the mantel to look over the mail that Sherlock had stabbed next to Billy the Skull. _At least he remembered I told him where to put the mail so I could find it this time._  
  
John heard another exacerbated yell, the music turn off and the bathroom door bang open. He turned to look up at Sherlock, with the mail still in his hands, and what he saw when he came out, was FINALLY something that fazed…nay, even surprised the doctor.  
  
He was greeted by the sight of a six-foot wild consulting detective storming out of the bathroom, then stop dead in his tracks when he saw John standing in the sitting room. He was clad in nothing but sinfully tight black boxer briefs ( _oh god, are those silk?)_ and his threadbare blue dressing gown, his hair pulled off his face with a bandana, but most surprisingly of all, some of the absolute worst, most ridiculous Drag make-up John had ever seen, splashed across his face.  
  
_What. In. The. Hell?!? Oh God, Sherlock! Oh, no no no no… That foundation is absolutely wrong, it’s way too dark for your complexion.  What is going on with that contouring? With those fucking cheekbones of yours, that should be easy. It’s too stark, haven’t you ever heard of blending? Eyes are all wrong, way too flashy, your eyes are too beautiful for that.  Wait… this is my first thought? Really?? Why in the hell am I even thinking about this????_  
  
“John?”  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
The two men just stared at each other. After a moment,  
  
“Umm…. You’re home early.”  
  
“Yeah, keynote speaker cancelled, so tonight would’ve just been drinking and schmoozing with a bunch of people I don’t really know or like anyway. Saw no reason to stay and torture myself, so I came home.”

_And I missed you anyway._

“You said nothing about coming home early last night.

“Yeah, thought I'd see if I could surprise you.”

  _But no, you take the cake on the surprise department._

“Right, good then. Certainly did, Ok, I’ll just be heading to my room…er, I mean the bathroom, then. Yes...” Sherlock said as he turned to go into the bathroom, trying to make his getaway without any awkward questions.  
  
“Sherlock?” The brunet stopped, dropped his head down, shoulders slumped, and sighed.  
  
“It’s for a case, John.” He said without even turning around.  
  
“And what case is that, Sherlock?” The giggles were starting and John couldn’t  be arsed to try to stop them. He was tired from travelling, and when John was tired he was either going to get grumpy or get the giggles. Here he was looking at something he never would’ve guessed he’d see (maybe fantasized about a time or two if he was being honest with himself); the first thing to surprise him in very long time. The giggles were gonna happen.

 “No, no, no! Let me guess, ‘The Case of Hoochie Harlequin?’ No, no, no…. ‘The Problem of The Painted Prankster’?”  
  
“Ha ha ha, very funny. Go on then, get it out of your system, John. Why do people always assume you are the mature, more “adult” one out of the two of us?” John could feel the eye roll, even with Sherlock’s back turned.  
  
John had to finally sit in his chair to let the wave of laughter get out of his system, “I’m sorry, but come on!  It's a bit unexpected, you have to admit. One doesn’t normally walk into their flat at 12:30 on a Friday afternoon expecting their mate to come out looking like a trash drag queen coming home from a particularly rough Walk of Shame!”  
  
Sherlock whipped around and stomped into the sitting room, “Well, John, you weren’t supposed be home till tomorrow. You were not supposed to come traipsing in and see this travesty. Because, yes, John! I know! It’s bloody awful!” He plopped himself down on the couch. John’s laughter quickly quieting down, as he was now left concentrating very hard on not looking to the other side of the room, since Sherlock’s dressing gown was wide open, not doing a thing to hide the fact that his pants left very little to the imagination. Long lines of sinful alabaster skin were on display, pushing the boundary of what material could restrain, every line and detail of Sherlock’s bulge hinted at through sinful silk, all for John’s eyes only and god, it was so tempting to simply stare. Like Pavlov’s dog, John’s mouth watered at the temptation.  
  
Sherlock had never exactly been a modest man or understood the concepts of personal space or privacy, but he had always been somewhat guarded or closed off when it came to himself. Even when he roamed around the flat (or Buckingham Palace for that matter) in only a sheet, he still completely covered himself. Before Sherlock’s “time away,” John would catch glimpses here and there. Hard not to after the many times he patched the younger man up after who knows how many of their nastier cases, or when John would catch him occasionally going between the bathroom and his bedroom in nothing but a low-slung towel, but that was a walk of a few steps at most. Since his return 6 months ago, though, Sherlock had become even more guarded, always completely dressed when John was around. His suit now his armor, more so than ever, always neatly and firmly in place. This was the first time John had seen him this exposed in literally years.  
  
“Ok, ok, fine, I’m sorry Sherlock. So, this” John says as he is makes an absent-minded gesture toward his face, “is for a case, huh? What’s the case?”  
  
Sherlock turned to look at him suspiciously, like he was expecting the giggles to start up again at any moment. He sighed, and with a raised eyebrow, he sat up and explained “The owner of a gay bar that specializes in drag performances contacted me because someone has been harassing their performers. The harassment, so far, has not been physical, so the Yard have not been involved yet. This seems to be more stalker-type behaviour, but it is escalating. It started out as small tokens; flowers, candies and the like, being left in the dressing room areas, but no one would see them being left, despite the heavy traffic from performers, employees, etc. The tokens then moved to items of a more personal nature. For example, one performer is quite fond of their champion-bred bulldog, and after their last performance at this venue, two small figurines of bulldogs appeared, one at their dressing room table, and one in the dashboard of their personal vehicle, which the performer swears that they locked. The owner finally contacted me because the most recent incident involved a token left on the front steps of the performer’s personal residence. The home did not appear to be broken into, but needless to say, they are quite upset that their home location is known. The venue has a regular cast of performers and performances each night of the week, except for Tuesdays, as they are closed that day, but the targeted performers are always guest performers and only from the Friday or Saturday shows. The owner obviously fears for the safety of the performers due to the escalation of “attention,” but also fears that if this continues, the club will gain the unfortunate reputation of not being able to safeguard the performers’ well-being, and they will be unable to draw talent to the venue.”  
  
“Do we think it’s maybe one of the regular Queens? Maybe jealous of the attention the guests are getting?”  
  
“No, I do not believe it is likely.  From my research, it would appear that this venue has a very good standing in the community, both among clientele and employees alike. Apparently, it is a great honor to be a regular member of the cast of this establishment, so jealousy of the guests would not appear to be a motive, and would seem unlikely for a regular performer to risk their spot.”  
  
_He hasn’t said where this is, has he? No, and he thinks he’s being vague enough that I wouldn’t be able to figure out where it is. I think I know where this is going..._  
  
“Still, a guest can rotate in as regular cast with enough support from the crowd, or from the producers; could still be a motive to scare new talent away.” Sherlock’s eyes squinted at John, one eyebrow clicked up slightly, trying to determine if what John said was intuitive, talking through the case, as they often do, or if there was more being said.  
  
“Of course I will be investigating all employees, I am not an amateur at this, John.” He said with his signature eye-roll as he flopped back down on the couch. “The owner is emphatic that it could not possibly a cast member or other employee. He seems to be under the delusion that everyone there is one big happy family, and could never possibly hurt one another, blah, blah, blah. Sentiment.” Sherlock spat the last word out like poison on his tongue.  
  
It still killed John every time Sherlock did that.

 _You know that line of B.S. doesn’t work with me. Not all sentiment is bad, you bloody stupid genius, and I know you know that._  
  
“It’s still very possible though, I’d say.” John continued, “Some places, yeah, it’s your chosen family in there, people watching out for you, do anything to help if you need it, but bloody hell, other bars are vicious, people get carried away, spend so much time trying to stab everyone in the back to get ahead they forget to keep an eye out for their own; end up looking like a hedgehog.”  
  
Sherlock regarded John for a moment, expression unreadable. John kept on.  
  
“Ok, so that’s the case… Still doesn’t exactly tell me why you are in some of the worst make-up I’ve seen in a very very long time. But, if I were a deducing man, I would say they somehow wrangled you to perform or something?”  
  
“No, John, they did not ‘wrangle’ me, as you so elegantly put it, they asked me to simply come to the show tonight to investigate, speak to employees, all that.”  
  
“Good, cause thinking about you performing…” A smile kicked up the corners of his lips.  _Would be fucking amazing... That fucking body of yours was made for dance, I can only imagine how you’d move up there…. Or under me…. God! Fucking Shut Up John!_  
  
“I volunteered to perform.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Yes, I volunteered. If I was seen coming in as myself, any unlawful or unseemly behavior would not occur. People do know who I am and what I do, John, thanks to your little blog.” _Or the fact that you jumped off a fucking building in broad daylight, were dead for two years and then miraculously came back from…wherever the hell you were…. but we’re just not gonna talk about that, are we? “_ My plan is to arrive, in makeup, to mask my identity. The owner will introduce me as a friend from out of town, performing as favor. Then I will perform, and be able to observe the audience from the vantage point of the stage.”  
  
“So, you’re putting yourself out there, as bait. Again.” _Goddammit, Sherlock, not this shit again._

“I'm not going as bait, John. I simply wish to be able to observe in relative peace. Blend in with the environment.”

It took John a long moment to respond. _I can't let him do this. He thinks he’s just going to be observing, how can he not see that he will be nothing but a fucking target, especially if he goes in face?  He thinks this is just be a normal case, he doesn't know how fucking dangerous this could be. Does he not realize how dangerous it can be out there for Queens, even now? Fuck!! You know, John, he's a stubborn fucking twat, he's gonna do it no matter what I say. I mean, what does my fucking opinion on his safety matter anyway? Jesus fucking christ, this man will be the fucking death of me._

“OK, Sherlock, so I am assuming then that the utter travesty on your face right now is your attempt to practice your make-up for tonight? Didn't they offer to have someone do it for you?”

“Yes John, they did, but I preferred to do this myself.”

“And?”

Sherlock turned his face and glared at him. Through gritted teeth and lips a terrible shade, he said, “I am finding it a skill much more difficult to master than I had believed it would be.”

John grinned at first but when he looked over at his friend he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He knew how much Sherlock hated to admit not being amazing at something.

_But then again, the bastard needs to be learn some humility now and again. Maybe, you don't have to be perfect all the time, Sherlock. No matter what, I still love… God! No John, stop fucking thinking that! He does not need you fawning over him like some fucking hormonal teenager, he does not feel THAT for you. Get over it. Just be his friend. Just help him._

“Right.” John got up, walked over to his friend and sat on the other side of the sofa, and looked over at him. “Did they give you makeup and everything? Or did you go out and get your own?”

Sherlock looked up, “I bought the supplies myself. They made certain recommendations of what to get, but I preferred to have my own supplies.”

“Good, now, please go wash that shite off your face, then get back in here. I'll have tea ready for you.”

“I think I should contact Mika first to make other arrangements for this evening.”

_Mika…. Hmm, interesting…._

“No, Sherlock, just please go get that crap off, then get back in here.”  John threw a bit of The Captain in his tone. He hated pulling rank like that ( _not really, you have no idea how much I want to pull rank on your gorgeous arse, all fucking night long_ ), but dammit, Sherlock was a stubborn man, and sometimes it’s what it took to get him to behave.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything, just got up, tied the dressing gown around himself tightly and walked down to the bathroom. John heard the door click before getting up to set the kettle on. He pulled out the tea bags, mugs, and the sugar, checking first of course, that yes, it was in fact sugar in the bowl.

John knew that he was about to do was going to open a long-sealed can of worms. Things he had not talked about or tried to think about in a very long time. He listened for the sounds of Sherlock washing his failed attempt off his stunning face. While the kettle was heating up, John went up to his bedroom, and pulled out a long-neglected case from the back of his wardrobe.

When he came back down, he could still hear the water running in the bathroom. He set his case on the kitchen table and prepared the tea for the two of them; milk for him and heaps of sugar for Sherlock. He walked back to the bathroom door and gave it a small knock. “How’s it going in there?”

“To be frank, I am amazed at the tenacity of the eye makeup they recommended. It will not come off all the way.”

“One second.” John stepped back into the kitchen, scrounged around in the cabinet, finding the jar he was looking for after a minute (and confirmed it's actual contents). Back at the bathroom he knocked again, “Here, try this. Should take it off easy”

Sherlock cracked the door and grabbed blindly for what John was holding, not letting him see how much worse his face had to be, smeared from his attempts to wash the makeup off. He finally connected and pulled the jar in, quickly shutting the door. “Coconut oil? Really John? What, you expect me to smear pure oil on my face?”

John smirked, _Posh git, doesn’t cost more than £50 a jar, so it’s not good enough for that precious face, I get it._ “Ok, don’t use it, just keeping scrubbing away with that expensive shite of yours until your face burns. Or you could stop being a difficult arse, and just listen to me. Take a small amount, rub it into the stubborn stuff, then wipe it off. It won’t kill you, I promise, it's actually pretty good for your skin.” _Not that you need it with that perfect complexion of yours_. “And hurry up, your tea’s gonna get cold.”

John went back to the kitchen, grabbed their cups, setting them on the coffee table, then going back for his case, putting that down on the floor next to where he sat on the couch. After a minute, he heard Sherlock coming out of the bathroom. His robe was still pulled tight around him and John could see, by the lines underneath that he must have pulled on a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. _Defenses back up, armour on. Knew that wasn’t going to last. At least that crap’s off his face._

Sherlock paused in the doorway to the sitting room, hesitantly looking over at John, before finally moving to the couch. He sits, in his casually guarded way, picked up his tea, took a sip; ever the vision of perfect posh Englishman. John knew better. Something was off and it was more than just Sherlock not being good at something. He decided he would worry about that later. First, the matter at hand.

“So, you need to have drag makeup done for this case tonight, and you would prefer it done here at home, without the help of the client, correct?”

Sherlock paused and squinted his eyes, like he was again, trying to figure out that puzzle named John Watson. To John’s relief, he finally answered. “Yes, that is the case.”

_Now or never, Captain Watson._

“I can help.”

Sherlock’s surprise was evident only in the slightest widening of his eyes that would be missed by most people. John was not one of those people. He saw it and knew what it meant immediately.

_Sherlock was not expecting me to say that. Probably expected me to try to convince him not to do this._

“How exactly do you mean, John?” The laser-like gaze that held John now from across the couch would have made him uncomfortable in days past, but now was almost a comfort to the man.

“I can do your makeup for you.”

“It pains me to ask, John, for I wish to not appear ungrateful,” words dripping with the sarcasm that signaled his defenses being raised, “But how do you think you can learn the apparently nuanced skill of drag makeup in these few hours, when I could not?”

_Deep breath…_

“Because I don’t have to learn it, ya stupid git. I already know how. And frankly, I’m pretty fucking good at it.”

Silence, stillness, few blinks, that’s all John was getting.

_Wow, he **really** wasn’t expecting that. I could get used to surprising him._

John settled back into couch, pulling his leg up under him. He had a story to tell and he needed to get comfortable.

“We’ve known each other for a long time now, Sherlock. At this point, you know who I am _now_ better than anyone, but the one thing I’ve always noticed is that you have never have asked much about before we met, apart from my military service. Oddly fascinated with that, frankly.”

“Your personal knowledge of trauma, both as doctor and patient has been invaluable to The Work, John.”

“Not the point, Sherlock.” he said with a pointed look. Sherlock shut up. “My point is that as goddamn nosy you are about my life now, you never had much interest in who I was or what I did as a kid, or in school. What type of bloke I was in Uni. I figure you either didn’t care or had deduced it all already and couldn’t be arsed to actually ask me. Either way, there’s apparently a big thing you never worked out.” _Which means this is the “couldn’t be arsed to care” option. Figures._

“I didn’t not care John,” Sherlock starts, finally coming out of his reverie, quiet. “I know there are a great many ups and downs in your past; it is not my place to cause you any discomfort by inadvertently asking of things that may have been one of the downs to you. You have told me details of your past, in passing, and I have kept each piece stored away in your room in my mind palace. It may not give me the most complete picture I would prefer of your past, but I will accept what I can get.”

John was the one to be surprised this time, left with a warmth in his chest at Sherlock’s words, but he couldn’t stop himself from commenting on one thing in particular, “I have a whole room?”

Sherlock’s look clearly said, “Duh.’ _If Sherlock would ever be so gauche as to use the word duh._  “John. I spend more time with you than any other person, and you know more about me than I would assume anyone else does, except perhaps of course, Mycroft, but he hardly counts, as most of his recent knowledge of me is from CCTV and bugs in the flat that slip past our sweeps, not actual first-hand knowledge of me as a person, like you do. How on earth could you not think I would have a room dedicated to you?”

“Didn't really think I'd be important enough.” John said quietly.

“Loath to repeat myself as I am, again, I feel like I must point out, you are an idiot, John Watson.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“You are welcome, John. Now, I fear I interrupted, please continue.”

“Right. Before you start assuming anything, no, I was never a Drag Queen. Unless you count that Halloween charity show they somehow convinced me to do, but no. You do not want to see me in face, even my talent can not make me a pretty girl, and trust me, you definitely do not want want to see me dance, it was bloody awful.” He had to laugh, and give himself a moment, remembering a time in his life long past.

“You know that Harry and I are really close in age, right?

“Yes, only 11 months, correct?”

“Yeah, Catholic twins. She was a year above me for all of school, but decided to do a gap year, and do some travelling with her friends. So, we ended up in Uni together at the same time. Took one semester in the dorms for us to realize that wasn’t going to work. Frankly, neither of us could stand being around that many people all the time, so we decided to share a flat for the rest of our time in school.”

“You and Harry voluntarily living together, for four plus years? That must have been hell.”  John shook his head.

“I know why you would think that, but it wasn’t like it is now; back then. Growing up, she and I were _actually_ really close. We moved around a lot, being a military family. We’re all we had, the only constant, for a long time. So, living with Harry was pretty great, most of the time. But like you said, there have been lots of ups and downs in my life, this was really both. ”

John stopped to take a sip of his tea, which was quickly going cold. He was waiting for Sherlock to speak up at any moment. He rarely let John talk this long uninterrupted. When Sherlock remained quiet with his complete attention on John, he sat his cup on the table and continued.

“Harry had come out during her gap year. Ended up her ‘travel buddy’ was more than just a buddy. Came as a surprise to exactly no one, except my parents, though. That’s a tale for another day, but I'll just say, they didn't exactly take it well. So, when she came back and started Uni, Harry pretty much said fuck it, and finally decided to start living as herself, and enjoyed all the life that a 20-year-old newly minted lesbian could. Well, long story short, Harry tried her hand at Drag.”

Now Sherlock did interrupt, “Wait… But, Harry’s female? Unless there’s something else huge I missed out on?”

“Oh no, you didn’t miss that too. Harry is cis-gendered female. She performed as a Bio-Queen.”

“A what?”

“A Bio-Queen. A biological or cis-gendered female, who identifies as female, but who performs just like any other traditional Queen; the costumes, the glitter, the make-up, everything. Well, a little less tucking, maybe. Turns out she was amazing at performing; danced like it was her life, could learn a routine in no time at all, could create unbelievable costumes, and the audiences absolutely loved her. It was the most alive I had ever seen her. Unfortunately, there was one skill that completely missed her. Make-up. She was horrible. Absolute trash. For the first six months or so, she had the other Queens helping her, especially her Drag Mamma, but eventually, she was asked to perform at a venue where she didn’t know anyone, and all her friends were performing in other bars that night, so she started panicking. I went with her a lot when she performed, so I had watched her make-up getting done plenty, and I’m not too slow to pick things up, no matter what you say. I thought, what the hell, can’t do any worse than her, and so I offered to help. Well, it turned out that I wasn’t too horrible at it. For my first time doing it, it didn’t look much different from when the other Queens had helped. After that night, I started researching and learning. Different products, methods, etc. I pretty much became her personal make-up artist after that, did her face before every show. And I'm not trying to brag when I say this, but I got really good at it.”

Sherlock just sat there, listening, probably the most attentive he had ever been while John was speaking.

“It was a really good time for us. We were young, both doing well in school, having a good time, meeting some really amazing people. You gave me a look before when I said how some bars are like family, but it’s true. I felt closer to most of my friends back then than I ever did to my own blood, except for Harry, of course. These were people that just accepted you for who you were, no expectations,  judging you only by your character and integrity, not how you dressed, what was between your legs, or who you wanted to fuck. That’s when Harry met Clara, in fact. Harry was doing well with her shows, even won a few pageants. But after we graduated, things started changing. I was already making plans for the military; couldn’t exactly afford med school without some help, and well, with Da and the rest of our family history, it was long expected that I would join up anyway, carry on the family tradition and all that. Harry was pulling away, drinking more, performing less. We started fighting constantly, and not the sibling sniping at each other like we’d always done; it got downright vicious. After I ended up in A&E one night getting stitches when she drunkenly chucked an ashtray at my head, I decided it was enough. Moved out that night and had to kip on Stamford’s couch for the few weeks left before I was shipping out. Harry and I never were the same after that. Both too stubborn and have too much of the same Watson temper to get over it, even 20 years later.”

“If it was such a great time in your life, how come you’ve never spoken of it before now? Is it just because of your breakdown with Harry?” Sherlock’s questions were not what John was expecting. He said it quietly, sounded concerned.

“Honestly, because life and the world and bullshit expectations get in the way, and sometimes it’s easier to keep things to yourself than to admit it out loud. There were…well, a lot of things that I realized and finally accepted about myself during that time.” John had not thought the conversation was going to go exactly this way, but he should have known better. Now that they were there though, he knew what he wanted, no needed, to say next, but couldn’t get the words he hadn’t spoken in nearly a decade to come out.

“Like?” Sherlock wasn’t being pushy. _Probably knows exactly what I’m about to say and he knows that if he doesn’t poke, I’m going to find a way to avoid it._

A swallow, a cough, another sip of tea. _No going back now._

“Well,” _God how can I say this with him looking at me like that?_ Sherlock sat patiently, ice blue eyes fixated on the nervous man. “I finally came out as bi publicly. That was the big one.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a minute fraction, then an expression John didn’t recognize flashed across his face; like the start of smile, then shifting to something John couldn’t name but didn’t think he liked, then settled to calm passivity again.

“I shipped out less than a month after I moved out from Harry. That’s when everything changed, like an era of my life was done. On to the next, and it couldn’t have been more different. The military was not as…accepting as it is now. The rules were changing, but attitudes are always more difficult.  I was scared, being in this super-masculine macho attitude environment, to tell any of them I was bi, and that my social life in the last three years had been spent mostly in gay bars, playing with makeup on a bunch of drag queens, and that out of the last 5 people I had dated, three were men, including a transman. Since I was…. am bi, I thought I could just choose. I liked women, I didn’t have to say anything about liking men too.”

_And well, any late night hurried hand-jobs behind the supply tents to keep the loneliness away….well, we just didn’t talk about that._

“And all the ‘not gay’ remarks that continued?” Sherlock asked quietly, not quiet meeting John’s eyes any longer.

John winced, but tried to keep the mood light, “Well, first of all, because I’m not. I’m bi or maybe pansexual would be a better way to label it, but nonetheless, there _is_ a difference.” And then, with a guilty sigh, he continued, “Because it was easier to keep to the party line. I should have clarified, should have said something. I kept telling myself that I wasn’t lying, if people wanted to make assumptions about what I meant, that was on them. But I should know better than anyone, omission of the truth says just as much as an outright lie. This…saying this out loud, even just to you, it’s coming out all over again. You’d think doing it once would make it easier, but nah, not really.”

_Plus the first man I even tried to flirt with when I got back shut me down immediately…Something about being “Married to his Work…”_

Sherlock looked up, and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but he surprisingly, shut his mouth, and kept it to himself.

“So, this conversation went off the tits a bit. Wasn’t exactly planning on all that.”

“I am sorry John. I didn’t mean to push or pry.”

“No, that’s what I mean, Sherlock. It is ok to ask, I know you are curious. I’m surprised you haven’t asked anything before. If you want to know something, just ask. Don’t think you have to tiptoe, I’m not fragile.”

_So, this is the day I had to tell Sherlock a. I'm bi and b. he doesn’t have to worry about hurting my feelings. What in the actual fuck?_

“Right.” John ran his hand through his hair, pinched the bridge of his nose, and soldiered on, staring right into those impossible eyes. “Back to what started all of this. Do you want my help or nah?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Work in Progress, but I do have several chapters done already. Hope to be posting every 1-2 weeks.  
> BTW, if you care to follow me, I can be found on Tumblr at
> 
>  
> 
> [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day of surprises has hit Baker St. 
> 
> John has revealed more about his past to Sherlock than he ever has before and he's made an offer to help Sherlock with an especially interesting case.

_Shite. I fucking broke him._

Sherlock sat motionless on his end of the couch for at least a minute and a half, staring at a spot just beyond John’s shoulder. John was starting to worry. Usually, Sherlock’s completely offline, “lost in his mind palace” moments were reserved for especially difficult problems or ideas that Sherlock had to set all his attention to because he had no frame of reference for; always the problems that he had to completely shut out everything to solve. They had already talked through a lot to get to where they were at, so it wasn’t a “no frame of reference” situation. This, or at least some part of this, was apparently a difficult problem Sherlock was trying to work out. Something about that idea made John’s stomach drop a bit.

_This can’t be because I’m actually better at this than him. I mean, it’s not really making Sherlock that uncomfortable, is it? God, maybe he’s just trying to find a way to let me down easy so he can have them do it. Then he wouldn’t have to admit it to me. He’s just going to say ‘It’s better for the case, John.’  Jesus, I know he’s a conceited little shit, but he’s not that fucking shallow, is he? I mean, there wouldn’t be any other reason why he would be uncomfortable with this. Is there? He couldn’t be spooked for the same reasons I am. But, he’s never… No… no John, don’t even… Don’t even think like that._

“Sherlock? Hullooo…. You still in there?” He sat back and looked at his friend with a tilt of his head, trying to keep the atmosphere as light as possible. Treasonous pinpricks of sweat threatened along John’s neckline, along with a sense of dread sinking heavily in his stomach. The room was quiet, too quiet; even the normal din of London’s traffic seemed to sense the anticipation driving John mad, and shushed itself for the time being. This made each tick of the clock on the bookshelf boom inside John’s already too busy head as Sherlock continued to explore his mind for the solution to whatever part of the question was vexing him.

Finally, Sherlock came back. He blinked a few times, shook his head slightly and glanced over to John. The doctor tried to discreetly let out a nervous breath he had been holding for far too long.  Sherlock quietly said, “Yes, John, I accept your offer. Your help with this... aspect of the case would be very much appreciated,” before dropping his eyes to stare at his hands in his lap. “And... thank you, for saying that I can ask about your past. I know you are a more private person than you generally let on, so I know what that means coming from you.”

_What the fuck has gotten into you, Sherlock? This is the most sentimental, drive-my-stupid-pinging-arse-insane words I have ever heard you speak, and for fuck’s sake, you're talking **about** me? If you only knew what you are fucking doing to me. Your words, your emotions, your fucking voice from those magnificent lips, oh god, those lips.  Wait no…. that’s exactly what Sherlock does **not** need to know!_

“Really, it’s not a problem. If I can’t talk about my past with you, who can I? Trust me, there’s plenty of stories I can tell you about my childhood that will only prove that I am, in fact, the idiot you always claim me to be. Whenever you’re down and need a really good laugh, remind me to tell you about the time I broke my leg at my Grandmother’s at Christmas when I was ten.  And Sherlock?”

John wanted Sherlock’s full attention, so he tilted his head just a bit and quietly peered at his dear friend, waiting to continue until Sherlock finally peaked up from his lap.

“Thank you, for trusting me enough to let me help you.  I know _you_ are a very proud man, and that it takes a lot for you to admit you’re not always the best at everything. I promise, I’ll do right by you. You might even be a little proud of what your doctor can do.” John had the strongest urge to reach over and take Sherlock’s hand in his own, to twine those long graceful fingers with his own, to hold him, flesh to flesh in any way he could, to say what he couldn’t speak aloud in words, but John had gotten quite accomplished at resisting that particular urge, as well as many other, more scandalous urges, over the years.

“No, thank you. And you always do, John.” Sherlock replied, with a soft smile on his lips.

“Do what?”

“Do right by me. And even when I’m being, as I think you last called it, ‘a childish, ill-mannered, pompous twit’ I’m always proud of you. What you have done, always done, to help with The Work and to keep me safe as possible when I seem completely intent on crashing into the most dangerous situations available, has been invaluable, John. There aren't many people that can keep up with me, but you do, and seem to enjoy it, and for that, I am very proud.”

John felt a lump in his throat and a warmth blossoming on his face that made him wish very badly that Sherlock was looking at his lap again right now. He knew he needed to lighten the mood, or he was going to make some very poor decisions.

“What’s this, Sherlock? You don’t compliment most people.”

“You’re not most people, John.”

_You’re killing me, ya know that right? Where in the blood hell is this coming from? Quiet Sherlock? Appreciative Sherlock? Humble? Almost…fuck, I wish…. affectionate?  What the fuck is going on today? John, it’s just Sherlock being_ thankful _. He is human and can show his appreciation. He’s been doing better at that since he’s been back, but he’s just newer at the attempt. John, you’re the one turning this into something that it’s not, seeing what’s not there._

John sighed quietly, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and took in the sight of Sherlock, who somehow had gotten smaller on the couch next to him, knees tucked up to his chest. John knew the next part wasn’t going to be easy, but he had to change the subject and there were things he would need to know for tonight, if he intended to follow through with that promise to Sherlock. It was the perfect chance to steer this conversation away from some very dangerous territory.

“Right, so now to the nitty gritty, Sherlock. To get this right, I’m going to need to know a few things, ok?” Sherlock nodded, without a word, from across the couch. John heard a quiet sigh as Sherlock looked up at him, “I'm assuming you have a costume already?”

“Yes, the client has been able to provide me with the costuming.”

“Do you have it here? Can I see it, so I know what colour scheme to work with?”

“No, they are not. The client has two costumes for me, as I will be performing twice with a “costume change” between each. They are apparently quite expensive, custom-made pieces, the client said, so they preferred to keep possession of them though.”

“Oh, ok… That’s not uncommon at all for costumes to be ridiculously expensive, especially the custom ones. That’s why most of my broke-ass friends learned how to use a sewing machine real quick. Do you at least know what they look like? Colours, style, that sort of thing?”

“No John, absolutely not. I’m going to go in with no idea what I’ll be wearing. I might even wear a blindfold while I’m putting them on. It’s all going to be a surprise!” He finished with showy flash of his hands and a look at John that said exactly what he thought of his question. _Love the sarcasm, ya arsehole._ John returned Sherlock’s look with one of his own, his “Fine-stupid-question-now-get-on-with-it-Sherlock” look. The detective sighed dramatically but did continue. “They are both dresses, similar ballet styles, leotard tops, long sleeves, flowing sheer material for a skirt, all that foofy feminine nonsense…  One is eggshell white with antique gold trim, and the other is all black.”

_A leotard? Are you fucking kidding me? It couldn’t be some fancy poofy sequined pageant dress? No, he’s going to be in skin-tight material, stretched out over that amazing fucking body, emphasizing everything? His muscles, those long beautiful lines of his body, like a fucking work of art… goddamn it, stop! Right, so this is the image I must conjure in my mind and come up with a look for?? What great sin did I commit in a past life to deserve this fresh hell?_

“Any embellishments that you know of?”

“They are both fairly simplistic in design, just the gold trim on the white dress and I believe the sheer material on the black is… shimmery.” He said with his patent sneer.

John chuckled softly. _So, no problem with everything else, but god help the indignity of ‘shimmery.’_

“OK, that's easy enough. I should be able to do something that'll work for both. I assume you’ll be wearing a wig?”

Sherlock shifted slightly on the couch, looking down again. “Yes, I told the owner I didn’t want anything too unlike my own hair, too big or unnaturally coloured.” Sherlok ran his fingers through his hair for unneeded emphasis.  _Yeah, cause your hair is fucking beautiful, ya twit. What I wouldn’t do to be able to run my fingers through it just once._ “And they stated that they have several that should work for me. I believe they said they were “lace front” wigs. I assume you know what this means.”

John smiled and chuckled softly, “Yes, Sherlock, I do. Means there’s a small strip of sheer material in the front, that you can blend in to give you a more natural hairline. That’s good; those are usually the better-quality wigs. Now, do you have any idea what style makeup you want?”

“Style?” Sherlock seemed lost for a moment.

“Yes, I would assume no trash drag,” _You were doing that well enough on your own “_ but we could do something bright and glittery, the kind of showy drag that's pretty popular now, or could do something more subdued, more classic looking… “

“I…I don't know, but I don’t think I would want anything too… flashy. But I trust you, John. Really, I hadn’t had much time to think about any of that. Honestly, this...” Sherlock mimicked John’s earlier motions towards his face, “ran away from me before I had a chance to.” Sherlock finally lets a corner of his mouth quirk up and he looked up at John with bright eyes.

_Good, he's almost laughing at himself. Humor’s good… he’s finally getting a little more comfortable with this. Lord knows that I’m going to be tense enough for the fucking both of us. That close to him, touching him…. Ok shit…. breathe John, you got this. Don’t need to make this any harder…No! Not harder!_ _I mean…. Fuck!…. MORE DIFFICULT!_ _Oh god, him hard against me, his cock on my leg, rutting, chasing his …. No John! Not the time._

Even with these thoughts swirling in John’s head, his carefully schooled face smiled back at Sherlock warmly. No matter how deeply he pined for the man, before all else, Sherlock was his friend, no, his best friend, and he loved to see what he was capable of doing to solve a case. John was glad, that for once, he could really do more to help than just being the muscle at Sherlock’s side or to act as a stand in for Billy the Skull, letting Sherlock work out a case out loud.

“Right, no worries, I have some ideas. I agree that we should probably do something in more of a traditional beauty style makeup. Would go better with ballet costumes.” _Plus, it’ll look fucking amazing on you._ “So, two songs. Do you know how long you have between sets?”

“Hmm, I actually did not think to ask that.” John laughed quietly, shaking his head. O _f course, you didn’t, ya daft wanker, why worry about those mundane little details?_ It was common for John to be the one to remember the little things like that when they were working a case together; Sherlock too caught up in the mystery of the case to bother to ask what he considered trifling specifics. Since Sherlock had set up and prepared this case on his own, he didn’t have pragmatic John worrying about the ‘trifling specifics’ for him.

“Well, do you know how many other performers there will be tonight? And do they each have two sets like you?

Sherlock squinted his eye, trying to figure why John would be asking, “The owner told me that tonight there will five performers, including myself. I believe the regular cast have three songs each, though. I will be performing in the middle of the second set and for the last number of the evening. “

John did the math real quick, mumbling to himself. “So, that puts six performances between your sets, three to five minutes for each…. plus the host chatter and intermissions…. probably gives you….mmmm…. 45 minutes to an hour or so? That’s a pretty decent gap of time. You should be able to do your costume change, unless it’s a real tricky number, but doesn’t sound like it. You’ll still have time to do all the snooping around you need. And by the way, no worries with whatever snooping you DO need to do, you don’t need to be too careful, at least with your makeup. I'm pretty good at indestructible face. Harry usually sweat her arse off on stage, but her face wouldn’t budge all night.”

Sherlock looked at him while John worked out the timing, and if John had to name it, it was a look of…. _What? Like he was…. Impressed….. or proud? Ok Sherlock, I do know basic math…_ As soon as John mentioned him snooping around for the case, though, Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

“I do not “snoop,” John. I investigate, I observe, I deduce, I solve the problem. You know this.” Sherlock said in his posh, public school tone.

John had to laugh at the beautiful pretentious bastard sitting across from him.

“Well, I am terribly sorry for using such plebeian language to describe your precious process. What time do you need to be at the club tonight?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, but answered the question. “I plan to be there by 9:00. Regular cast is there normally by 9:30 and the show starts between 10:00 and 10:30, but I have asked to come in earlier than the others to familiarize myself with establishment.”

“Good, that gives us plenty of time because I’ll only need about an hour and a half to two hours, roundabout.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John, “Hey, I told you I was good at this. I don’t need a lot of time. Wait…how long were you working on your face before I came in?” John asked with a quirk of smile threatening the corner of his lips.

“That’s not important John.”

“Oh no no no…. you’re not getting out of this one, Sherlock. How long were you working on… that?”

Sherlock mumbled something that John couldn’t quite hear, even though he was sitting barely a meter from the man.

“I'm sorry, what was that, didn’t quite catch it? You’ll have to speak up, please.”

“Four hours, John. Four hours! That appalling mess on my face took me four damned hours. Are you happy now?”

“Yes,” John said with a chuckle, “because holy shit, I just got the Great Sherlock Holmes to admit he wasn’t perfect. Put this down on the calendar!”

“Please John, I am well aware of my many flaws. Perfection it's something I would never, in good faith, claim.”

“Well no one is, so guess what. You finally have something in common with the idiot masses. What does Mycroft call us? Oh yeah, ‘the goldfish.’ Don’t worry, ya berk, I don’t think anyone is good the first time they try it.”

Sherlock merely puffed out a “harumph” as if it upset his genius sensibilities to have anything in common with everyone else. “ _You_ were apparently some type of savant the first time you did this, from what you said.”

“Not a savant, no. Yes, I did a pretty good the first time I did Harry’s makeup, but I had also been watching other people doing it for a while before then, so it wasn’t like I was starting completely from scratch. I saw what products they used, what brushes gave what effect, that sort of thing, well before I picked anything up and tried myself.”

John looked over to Sherlock, not really looking forward to the next question, even though it had to be asked, because he knew that the next question was the one who that would probably causes the most objection from Sherlock.

_Deep breath John, do not let him get his way with this one. He_ will _listen to you, because you know better._

So, that leaves us with one final question, for now at least, but it is probably the most important of the night,” John said very seriously, then broke into big grin “…Thai or Chinese?”

“John,” Sherlock started, using a tone John imagined most decent folk would reserve for explaining simple things to very unintelligent small children, “You know I do not eat when I am on a case.’

“Yes, I know you don’t, _normally,_ Sherlock,” _But_ _I will get you to eat something this time, dammit. “_ I also know that I’ve seen Queens fall flat out in the middle of a set because they were too distracted to remember to eat, or trying to squeeze in some tight-ass dress, and _wouldn’t_ eat. I don’t think you quite understand, it takes a lot of work to be up there, especially under those hot-ass bright stage lights. Since I've been out of town, I have no idea when you last ate, and you likely wouldn't answer truthfully if I asked. You are going to be smart about this; none of your “it’s just transport” bullshit, no debate, or so help me, Sherlock.” _And time for a touch of the Captain.  “_ So, again, Thai or Chinese?”

Sherlock was silent while he spoke, but John could practically hear the gears grinding on in Sherlock’s own magnificent way as the younger man stared him down with those frighteningly brilliant eyes, deciding whether he was going to be a mulish arsehole or actually listen to his Doctor for once.

“Fine, if I must, _Doctor,_ ” Sherlock finally relented, “Chinese then.”

John smiled to himself as he got up from the couch and patted Sherlock’s knee. John let his fingers linger a moment longer, squeezing just a fraction more at the end than he really should have and he swore he heard a slight hitch in Sherlock’s breath. _Oh god, why did I do that? He’s going to think that’s weird. We’ve never done any of this bloody ‘sentimental’ shit he despises before. God, I have no fucking idea what I’m doing._

John collected himself, not wanting to do anything further embarrassing, and quickly went over to the impressive stack of takeaway menus on the desk. He decided on Sherlock’s favorite. The absurdity of the day and the travel was catching up with him, and he wasn't looking forward to waiting for a delivery guy to navigate London traffic to get to their flat, but he wanted to make sure Sherlock would eat. He ordered more food than he knew he and Sherlock would be eating right now but he had to make sure he ordered something that Sherlock would actually eat, since the git would never actually tell him what he was in the mood for, and because it was likely they'd need something quick to eat later, after they'd gotten back from the club, hopefully with a solved case behind them.

_I mean, of course I'll be going with him, right? I know he_ was _planning on going by himself tonight, since I was at the conference, but I'm home now, no reason I wouldn't go._

John couldn't help the nagging feeling picking at the back of his skull though; there was something odd about how vague Sherlock had been about certain details of the case and it wasn't sitting right with him. But he decided he'd blow up that bridge when they got to it.

Once John had dinner ordered, he let Sherlock know. Sherlock gave back a grunt that could mean a thousand things, _That is the ‘yes John, I acknowledge that you are speaking to me and fully comprehend everything you have said, even though I'm pretending not to be listening to you’ grunt …._ and waved his hand dismissively in John's general direction. The Detective had his phone out, fiddling away, probably researching information the case.

John stepped into the kitchen to start up the kettle again, knowing his cup and surely Sherlock’s as well, were long past empty, and he needed more to get through this.

_Wouldn’t mind something a little stronger than tea though. But fucking hell, I just agreed to get extremely close and personal to do the makeup of the most beautiful man in all of London, and by Christ, if that man trusts me to do this, I will not fuck it up._

While he waited for the water to boil, he started to think about how he would do Sherlock’s makeup. He leaned back on the kitchen doorway and allowed himself to look right over at the man. _Well, here’s one added bonus, I have a ready-made excuse, I’m simply working out how I’m going to be doing his makeup, that’s all…. Yeah, it won’t be completely fucking transparent to the deducing genius you’re staring at him like some infatuated school-girl. No, John, this is fine, you have to look at him, right at him, with those eyes and the cheekbones and those fucking lips._ John leaned his head back and sighed, a bit louder than he was planning.

“John?” Sherlock said quietly.

“Yeah, Sherlock?” John’s heart started racing suddenly, panicking, scared that that small sigh was what finally made it click in Sherlock’s all-knowing brain that his flatmate was pathetically in love with him, fantasized about him on a regular basis, and “While I find your affections _flattering_ ,” he’d say with a sardonic sneer, “I feel we should not continue our association, as I have already told you that I am married to The Work, and yet you choose to continue your sad little infatuation. Please be moved out within a week,” or something similar.

“Are you ok?”

John was stunned silent, not expecting that to be what Sherlock was going to say at all. Not at a time like this. John used his considerable willpower to calm his breathing for a moment before answering, “I’m just a bit tired is all. Guess the day is finally catching up with me.” John finally opened his eyes and looked back over to Sherlock. Without thought, he zeroed in on the impossible eyes of the man he loved. There was a softness there that John had never seen before and his heart couldn’t take it. He could lose himself in those eyes, drowning in pools of bright blue from across the room.

“I’m sure you are considerably tired, John. Why don’t you lie down for a short while before dinner arrives? They’ll still be another 30-45 minutes with the food. And I can get everything laid out once it gets here. And you said yourself, we have plenty of time to prepare for tonight.”

Never in all the years they have known each other, had Sherlock ever been this considerate. Even when he returned from his time away, which had never been fully discussed between the two men, he was still the obstinate, demanding, brooding genius he always had been. A little quieter at times, not nearly as manic as before, but still as ever his rude-arsed self.

“That doesn’t sound like a terrible idea, really… Are you sure?” Do you want me to finish the tea before I head up?” He said, pointing to the kettle.

“Yes, John, I am sure. Please, it is the least I can do. You are tired and we can’t have that when you are supposed to be helping me. A well-rested John is a Happy John.  And please, do you really think me so helpless that I don’t know how to make tea? How do you think I survived all the years before I met you?”

John couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at Sherlock, “Umm...Mrs. Hudson.”

John heard a slight chuckle come from the couch, followed by a sigh. “While you may have a point John, it does not change the fact that I do know how to make tea.”

“Alright, alright. Just wake me up when dinner’s here.” John said as he started to make his way up the stairs to his bedroom, grabbing his luggage from next to his chair. Quietly and intended for his own ears, he mumbled “If you know how, then why don’t you ever make your own bloody tea?”

He had made it to the second stair, before he heard Sherlock’s voice behind him, just as quiet, “Because John, somehow it always tastes better when it’s made by your hands.”

It took John a good 30 seconds to remember how to breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand 2nd chapter posted!! Yeah!! Please, don't hesitate to leave comments!
> 
> Again, not beta'd or brit-picked, so please please please let me know if I missed any typos or glaring americanisms.
> 
> Also, my personal knowledge of drag culture is from midwest US history and traditions; I've tried to research differences in British drag culture vs. here, but if I missed something, let me know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is dealing with one hell an emotional roller coaster, with his offer to help Sherlock looming over him and Sherlock's sudden change of demeanor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where we get to the angsty-feels. Oh, and also a bit of that "E" rating I promised....

When John’s lung function miraculously returned, he swallowed down the lump of emotion threatening to choke him again and turned his face from towards the sitting room to the stairs up to his bedroom. He very carefully continued up; one foot in front of the other as if it were any other day. His insides may have been in the midst of an emotional hurricane, bashing his sanity against the rocks, but he would continue to climb those stairs as if everything was perfectly normal, that he had not just heard something so desperately close to affectionate spill from Sherlock’s lips. He had to be careful. His brain was going haywire. _Now I know how he must feel like when Sherlock goes “offline.”_  He couldn’t show any of that though; the stop on the stair was bad enough. He didn’t know if Sherlock meant for him to hear what he had said, but John knew that that pause surely meant Sherlock knew he _had_ heard it.

When John made it to his room he dropped his bags down on the floor and himself on to his bed. He stared up at the cracks in the ceiling and knew that he would not be sleeping at all during this “nap.” There were too many damn thoughts in his head, too many feelings that he had spent too many years keeping reigned in, now doing their very best to show themselves; to sneak out and sabotage all that he had done to keep the status quo. He couldn’t let that happen, he could not ruin what he had worked so hard to have with Sherlock. They had gone through hell and back, and damned if he would fuck it up now.

John had spent the time with Sherlock, before his “death,” utterly fascinated with the man and amazed that he was lucky enough to be allowed to be a part of his crazy world. How could he not be? Sherlock was a brilliant, unpredictable, unbelievably gorgeous whirlwind of a man who had saved John’s life in immeasurable ways. He had pulled John into the insanity of his life, and maybe it made John the crazy one, but he loved every second of it. He had felt alive again for the first time since getting shot in some far away desert; colour returned to the grey world he had been existing in with the force of a thousand fireworks. He had a purpose – be the conductor of light to the genius and protect the git when he forgot himself in favor of the Work.  For untold reasons, this impossible man seemed to like having boring old broken John Watson around. John would gladly take whatever Sherlock would willingly give, despite the growing feeling that maybe John wouldn’t mind more. _Just your typical pathetic schoolboy crush on his genius asexual flatmate, that's all._

He knew he was attracted to Sherlock the moment he set eyes on him in that lab at Bart’s all those years ago. He had tried to not to stand there like an absolute idiot, but he had never seen someone, in person, who could take his breath away the way that Sherlock did. He was the most beautiful man John had ever seen; like a model stepped off the runway, straight into the lab to play with the normal folk. When he had deduced John, that was it. He was done for. John told himself he just wanted something interesting to happen in his life and with Sherlock, that seemed very likely to happen. It had nothing to do with the fact that John found Sherlock attractive as all hell, in every sense of the word; physically, mentally, all that, and he was not going to let that go so quickly. For god's sake, he killed a man for him after knowing Sherlock only a day. If that doesn't say "I'm in for the long haul," nothing does.

John had felt as if it had been his very heart and soul that jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s and shattered on the pavement the day he lost Sherlock. He realized, too late, what his true feelings for the detective were. It wasn’t a school-boy crush, or simple attraction. In the brilliantly slow way that John thought, he realized, while listening to Sherlock giving him his “note,” that what he felt for Sherlock went beyond some meaningless shallow infatuation. He realized that he was well and truly desperately in love with the man standing on that rooftop. His only desperate thought screaming through his brain, _This can’t be happening! NO NO NO!! STOP THIS!! I LOVE YOU!! OH GOD!! I LOVE YOU, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!! I cannot lose you now!!_

In the two years that Sherlock was gone, John had been a shadow of himself. He had never in his life grieved as he had for Sherlock; not when his beloved grandmother, who always made his favorite biscuits just for him passed away when he was 11; nor when his father died of a heart attack in front of him when he was 14, cementing his drive to be a doctor; he didn't hurt like that when Paulie, the transman he had dated for a short time but still cared for deeply had been viciously beaten to death the week before John had left for the army. His time spent in the middle of a war zone saw so much loss, so much pain; grief was an ever-present tremor under his calm surface; for his friends who weren't going home, for the patients he couldn't save, and for the enemy he had killed.

All of this was a drop compared to the oceans of pain he felt losing Sherlock. He had been nearly catatonic for close to six months after that horrible day; worrying the likes of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Hell, even Harry was concerned enough to check on him a few times. He stopped going to work, stopped going to shops, barely ate, only doing so  when Mrs. Hudson forced him to. Thankfully, it appeared that someone with a “minor position in the British Government” was doing something to keep the lights on and the rent paid, because he couldn't be arsed to remember to pay any of his bills. _Always yelled at Sherlock for that. Huh…_

On top of the grief, there was anger. John had always had a temper, he wasn't lying when he mentioned the infamous Watson Temper earlier. He had always been so diligent about keeping at bay, so controlled, but now, the blinding rage he felt for everything threatened his very sanity. More frequently than John would like to admit, cups and plates became the focus of his explosive rage and ended their brief lives by being shattered against the wall. He was angry at Moriarty for forcing Sherlock’s hand; angry at Mycroft for traipsing in and so casually telling John about the snipers and Sherlock’s sacrifice, then leaving the flat like it was nothing, angry at the world for moving on like it hadn't just lost a pure miracle of a human being, angry at everyone who’d had a hand in destroying Sherlock’s reputation. Angry at Sherlock! God, so angry at Sherlock; for leaving him, for not trusting him to be able to help, for being so amazing that John would pathetically fall in love with him.

Mostly though, he was angry at himself; angry that he wasn't a genius like Sherlock was, because if he was, he would have seen what Sherlock had been planning and he could have stopped him. Angry that he wasn't good enough that Sherlock would think he could be of any help. Angry that the last time he was in the same room with him, John dared to call Sherlock a fucking machine. _That man was preparing himself for the possibility of giving up absolutely everything for those he cared about, including me, and I called him a fucking machine.  Sherlock left this world thinking that he only had himself, that I couldn’t help him._ John was so very very angry that he lost Sherlock before he realized what he had right in front of him.

So, he drank. He drank heavily to numb all of it, to numb the monstrous pain of losing Sherlock, to numb the obscene rage clawing at his mind. John could be found curled up at the bottom of a bottle more than he was proud to admit to for those first six months. His behavior was dangerously close to Harry's way of dealing with the world, but he couldn't (or didn't want to) find another way to deal with it all.  Well, he knew of one other way, but that involved a one-way trip up to his bedroom and to the souvenir from Afghanistan that he kept tucked away in the drawer of the nightstand next to his bed. That was a mess he would not leave for Mrs. Hudson to find.

The breaking point, John’s rock bottom, had been Lestrade finding him curled asleep _(or passed out, whatever_ ) next to Sherlock’s gravestone one cold weekend morning just after dawn, bundled in the dead man’s beloved Belstaff. John had no idea of how or when he had gotten there. He was freezing, his mouth was a desert, and his head felt like it had been cracked right down the center with a jackhammer. His last clear memory had been getting up from his chair at around six the previous evening to get out the second bottle of rotgut whisky for the day. After Lestrade pulled him to a sitting position, he had said to him, “Listen John, I know you hurting, I know you miss him, we all do. And we all know you miss him more than any of us can imagine. God, you’re probably going to hate me for saying this, but bloody hell, you can hate me all you want; you know Sherlock wouldn't want to see you doing this to yourself.”

John did want to hate him for saying it; he wanted to rage and scream in the man’s face. He wanted to grab Lestrade by the front of his coat, shake him, scream every vile painful thought that had been tearing at his brain since seeing Sherlock’s bloodied, broken body on that sidewalk, “How fucking dare you?! How fucking dare any of you! None of you fucking wankers believed him and now he’s gone, Sherlock isn't here anymore! That fucking bastard left me. He killed himself in front of me, like some goddamn drama queen! Fucking cunt probably never gave two shits about me in the first place, just liked having a loyal broken mutt around like Moriarty always said, needed a fucking audience, even then!  Never mind, I loved that fucking idiot, but he is gone, and he doesn't get a fucking say anymore!”

But he didn't; the look in Lestrade’s eyes when John rolled his heavy alcohol-laden head up at him stopped him immediately. His friend was hurting too and seeing John like this was making everything so much worse; the redness around his eyes told John that. He could see the guilt written across Lestrade’s face like a tattoo for the way New Scotland Yard treated Sherlock before The Fall.  John realized how scared Lestrade was to lose John now too, and he was doing his damndest to make up for his “failing” with Sherlock. Lestrade _was_ John's friend, one of the last he probably had on the planet, and he genuinely wanted to see John get better, so the best John could do was try.

Within that next week, John slowly began putting his life back together. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. He felt like he was giving up, losing Sherlock all over again. He eventually made a sort of melancholy peace with the fact that his old life was dead and gone, just like the amazing man he had loved so dearly. There would be no more late-night chases through the seediest parts of London, no more hours-long stake-outs, trying to keep each other amused to avoid going crazy from boredom, no more weekly near-death experiences for at least one of them - all of that was over.

He called Sarah about coming back to the clinic. He knew he had to go out and rejoin the world and work was the best way to do that. Sarah was actually terribly relieved to hear John’s voice, as one of the other doctors was retiring soon, and she was dreading going through the process of interviewing a replacement. He started right away, light on hours at first, to fill in for the other doctors when needed. John assured Sarah he was doing good and she gradually started working him up to full-time again within a few weeks, just as the other doctor was retiring.

Nearly a year after Sherlock had been gone, a new nurse, Mary, had started working in the surgery. She was flirtatious, John could see that she was very interested in him. She made him think about the possibility of dating again, it being something “normal” people did; people who weren’t mourning the loss of the single most important person in their life. But there would always be something pulling him back. Even if he did date, it would never be real because he would always be in love with someone else. He couldn't do that to another person. The comfort of another person, even under false pretense, was very tempting indeed, but there was something about Mary, though, that stopped him. She was so very nearly his exact “type” from before he met Sherlock, it was odd, a ‘too good to be true’ situation. Before Sherlock, she would have been someone he just as easily could've had a one-night stand with, or eventually married. But he wasn't the guy looking for an emotionless pull just to get off and any type of real romantic involvement wasn't going to happen. He knew that his time spent with Sherlock had made him look at the world with a slightly more suspicious eye, so he stayed friendly, but casual, until she left the surgery suddenly around six months later, sighting a better job opportunity up in Lancashire.

To see John during this time, you would have thought you were seeing a man finally moving on, dragging himself out of the cesspool of his grief. But really, you would have been seeing a carefully-crafted lie. John was no better than before, except in that he was better at hiding it, at functioning in public and playing his part. That, he could do for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He was certain that he would never be alright again. If John was being honest with himself, these were the worst times, as he felt an emptiness inside that was dark and endless, but he promised _(himself, Lestrade, God, Sherlock… who knows)_ that he would not take to drink to numb the pain again.

Most nights he sat alone in the quiet stillness of Baker St, staring at the walls, thinking terrible thoughts of _what ifs_ and _God, what could've beens_. He'd be sure to turn on the lights and the telly each night and move around occasionally, eating a small dinner, not because he felt any desire to do such things, but because he knew that Mrs. Hudson could hear him in her flat below, and didn't want to worry her. She was more of a mother to him than his own had ever been and he wished her no more pain than what she had already experienced losing one of her boys. She came up occasionally to chat and check up on John, their time spent dancing around with small talk, each of them carefully avoiding the subject of Sherlock as much as was possible. John did his very best to put on a good show for her. Same with Lestrade. He'd always go out for a pint with the DI whenever Greg threw out an invite. He'd talk, smile, banter about football and rugby, put on the face of a normal man sharing a pint with a friend.

But he always went back to his emptiness; his dark thoughts the only real companion he needed anymore. He'd never have a mind palace like Sherlock had had, but the thoughts he had were so repetitive, so practiced in his personal torture, they were his new way of life, his existence, his new norm.

_Why didn’t I ever thank you for saving me? You did, you know? Of course, you knew, first fucking night and that fucking cane. And I never fucking thanked you. God, I'm a fucking prick. You know, that's the night I think I fell in love you. That laugh of yours could have done it, God, I hadn't laughed that hard in ages. But seeing Angelo at the door…  realizing what you did for me. In one fucking day, you knew how to fix me when no one else did, when even I didn't._

_Did you really care for me though, even just as a friend or was I just a distraction? A puzzle to solve? How could you have cared? You were astonishing, your mind capable of so much, working in ways that us mere mortals could never fathom. You were so much better than me, how could I have ever deserved you. I am nothing more than broken man you must have pitied. A sad but loyal mutt to follow you around. You always did like dogs, didn't you? Maybe it was an experiment? Fix me up when the “professionals” couldn't, then what? Something to track between cases? What's the funny little man going to do today? Hmmm? What can I do today to drive him insane? But Sherlock, why did you have to be so fucking amazing that I would fall in love with you when you did it? You couldn’t have been that cruel, could you? You had to care, please, you had to, somehow. I had to be more to you than just a fucking distraction._

_Why did I never kiss you to see? Some days, I think you wanted me to. You would get a look in your eye that I swear was… something. You had the most beautiful lips I have ever seen. It’s like they weren’t even real, like some mind-reading artist went straight into my brain and picked the lips that would kill me and painted them on your face. Some days, when you were busy with an experiment or focused on a case, you would worry at your bottom lip, and goddammit, you drove me fucking insane with it. Did you even know you were doing it? I would stare, I couldn't help myself. And thank god you couldn’t give a shit if I was in the room or not, because it just meant I could stare even longer. I always wanted to know, how soft were your lips? Would you like me kissing you? Even if your great brain didn't care, would your transport? Were you always in such great control? Could you turn your mind off for just a second and just let me touch you, make your body feel good, make you come undone._

Most nights, he would stop there, force himself to think of something… anything else, to keep from letting his brain go further. But some nights he wouldn't. He let himself think about how desperately he wished he had taken some step, some move, not been such a fucking coward. He wanted to know how Sherlock would've looked with kiss-swollen lips, breath ragged from want, with his hair sweaty and disheveled from John’s fingers running through it. He wanted to know if pink would paint those sharp cheekbones as Sherlock became aroused. Would he be quiet, or would he allow filthy moans and shouts of passion to pass those perfect lips?

These were the nights that John would not stop himself from reaching into his pants and stroking himself to the thoughts of those lips on his body. He would look across at Sherlock’s chair and imagine his friend there, pale skin peeking from under his threadbare blue robe - John’s favorite - watching him, cataloging every stroke, every angle, every moan and gasp. John could see the beautiful man in front of him, stroking up his chest with one hand, the other cupping his own growing erection, letting out a purely pornographic moan as he squeezed his arousal, while never letting his eyes roam from John. John would close his eyes at this point, but he could still see everything in his mind; Sherlock licking his lips before getting up and kneeling before him, gently replacing John's hand with his own.

Sherlock would know exactly how to touch him, exactly how John liked to be pleasured. He would feel Sherlock's strong grip dig into his hip as the long talented fingers of his other hand would wind around John's cock and pull on his flesh, wringing from him pleasure as only Sherlock could create. Light, teasing touches before gripping John's shaft, stroking harder, swirling the precome at the tip with his thumb on each up stroke.

Sherlock would look up at him, his eyes filled with so much - lust, hunger and want, but above all else, love, pure true love, that John felt his heart bursting. There was a silent plea in those eyes before John slowly nodded. Sherlock would lick his lips once again before burying his nose in the short hairs above John's eager cock, taking in a lungful of John's scent. That tongue, so often used to cut those around him to verbal shreds, now licked a warm swath up the underside of John's cock before he could see those sinful lips open around the tip, tongue working his frenulum, just like John likes it. Sherlock would take more of him in, expertly sucking his way down John's cock, his tongue making love to John's flesh on the way down, inch by inch until John could feel himself hit the back of Sherlock's throat ( _Because of course he has no gag reflex)_ , then hollowing his cheeks as he came back up with the slightest scraping of teeth (the way that drove John _abso-fucking-lutely_ insane but no one could ever get right), only to give the most delicious swirl on the head of John's cock. He'd lick at the slit, tasting the precome beading there like it’s the most delicious treat in the world. Sherlock’s mouth would open again to take John's length back down, building a perfect rhythm of suck, swirl, lick that would drive John mad with desire until he'd run his fingers through the dark curls that have been the focus of his fantasies for years, _God, his hair is so fucking soft_. John would pull Sherlock up to him, so he could look into the infinite galaxies of his eyes before crashing their lips together in a kiss driven by pure heat and longing. John’s hand would clench in Sherlock’s curls and the other would wrap around his slender chest and John would feel like he will never be too close to this man. He let himself run his fingers down the younger man’s back, tickling down the knobs of Sherlock’s spine until John’s hand rested on his arse. He grabbed a handful of the flesh that terrorized his fantasies for years. Sherlock is amazing, as always; with the change of position, he could wrap his fingers tightly around both of their cocks, stroking hard and fast. The two men rutted against each other with a heated frenzy built out of years of denial, chasing their release together. Sherlock moved to kiss up John's stubbled neck before whispering in his ear, in his rich baritone, rough with heated desire, “Come for me John, fuck my hand, hard, I want to feel you come for me. Please.” The ‘please’ would do it, so rough, so full of need. That one word was the very definition of lust.  John felt himself tipping over the edge because of that one word rumbling in his ear, fucking the fist clenched around him, feeling Sherlock's prick pulse as he comes undone with John, the force of their combined orgasms shaking the very chair John was sitting in. It was absolute perfection.

Until he opened his eyes, and Sherlock was gone, leaving him with nothing but his own hand around his softening cock, covered in already drying come. These were the worst nights. These were the nights he'd wipe his hand off on the closest thing he could find, tuck himself away, and crawl into Sherlock’s bed, wrapping himself in the dead man’s duvet and lie there, pretending he could still smell Sherlock amongst the old sheets, praying to a god he no longer believed in for sleep that he knew would never come.

This miserable existence continued until the miracle John had asked for once at Sherlock’s graveside finally happened. Early on a Sunday afternoon, no different than the dozens before it, he had just stepped out the front door for his weekly trip to the shop, _Can't have Mrs. Hudson worrying too much about me eating,_ when a familiar black sedan pulled up. _I am not in the fucking mood for Mycroft’s shit today._ But instead of Mycroft, a long, slender, familiar and long-missed leg came out from the open door. John could not hope to believe in what he was seeing, so he just stared up at the sky, trying desperately to control his breathing. _Great, I’ve finally snapped and now I’m fucking hallucinating._ He didn’t even see Sherlock fully emerge from the car, didn't see him until he was standing in front of him, and John finally garnered the strength to lower his head back down. And then Sherlock spoke.

“John-”

One word and one look into Sherlock’s eyes, that’s all it took for John to faint from shock for the first time in his life. He woke up on the couch in the sitting room, a throw blanket around him, with Sherlock sitting in his chair, watching him. John sat up slowly, pulling the blanket off of him, but not taking his eyes of the dead man getting up from his chair across the room.

“Stop. Please.” John held out his hand, “First of all, are you real?” Sherlock stopped in his tracks, surprised, even taking a step or two back towards his chair.

“Yes, John, I am real.”

“So. Not dead?”

“No, John, not dead.”

“Right.” With that, John got up, went up to his bedroom and packed a bag. He came back down and looked at the miracle in front of him, still standing where John had left him. John had dreamed an fantasized about this moment for so long, and he knew he could very well be fucking things up on a disastrous scale, but the reality of what was happening was something that he could not handle at that very moment. He was so exhausted; his brain was going fucking haywire and he need to get very far away from Sherlock. His whole body vibrated with raw, unfiltered emotion and he needed to get out, quickly, before he did something stupid, something he may regret later. _I could kiss him or kill him right now, I don't know which would make me feel better._  He took several very deep breaths before he could speak, all the while, Sherlock watching him, quiet but extremely alert.

“Sherlock, please understand, I am very happy that you are not dead, off my fucking tits, really. But this is a whole fucking lot to deal with right now and I need to think and it would best that I leave the flat to do that. Nothing much has changed in here. Your room is still as it was. My phone number is the same. Text me in one week.”

He turned to walk out the door, before turning around once more, “And please, don't scare the shit out of Mrs. Hudson.” He chanced one look at Sherlock, knowing that it was very dangerous for him to do so, but he had to see Sherlock's eyes, just once to prove to himself that this was real, that Sherlock was alive and standing in front of him. He chanced a slight smile and received one in return.

And with that he turned and left. He didn’t even give Sherlock the chance to respond, because seeing those impossible eyes was hard enough, he didn’t know what he would do if Sherlock opened his mouth. He was down the steps and out the door before he had a chance to think. He looked around for a cab, but he had never had whatever black magic that Sherlock did that made them appear from thin air. While waiting for a cab to come round, he pulled out his phone.

**Greg**

**Sent 13:47**

_Hey, Greg, it’s John. Is there any chance I could kip on your couch for a week? Need to get out of the flat._

 

**Greg**

**Received 13:51**

of course, no problem. been a lot different in a flat by myself since cynthia left, so wouldn’t mind the company. everything ok?

 

**Greg**

**Sent 13:54**

_No, things are most decidedly not ok, but I’m physically fine, except may be having a bit of a panic attack, though. I'm not in any danger, flat’s in one piece. Let’s just say, if you don’t know what’s going on, I will not be the arsehole that tells you over text._

 

**Greg**

**Received 13:57**

well, that was certainly cryptic. I'll be here. actually have the damn day off, good timing there. sounds like I might need to I have a beer ready for you when you get here?? :-)

 

**Greg**

**Sent 14:02**

_You, my friend, are a fucking genius._

  
John finally flagged down a cab, and it couldn’t have come sooner. He knew Sherlock could still be standing by his chair, where he left him, but John doubted it. He had a very strong suspicion if he turned and looked up, he would see Sherlock at the window, watching him, and John did not know what he would do if he saw that man looking down at him. He held onto his frail sanity as he got into the cab, giving the driver Greg’s address, before falling back into the seat for the trip.

When John finally made it to Greg’s, he took one step into the new bachelor’s flat before he dropped his bag, looked at his friend, and said, “Sherlock’s alive.”

“Dammit John, get in here, sit.” Greg sighed and very carefully led the doctor over to the couch, “We’ve been over this. There is no way that he survived. You saw the body. I saw the body. Molly did the autopsy herself. Sherlock is gone. It’s been two years, John, you need to stop this.”

“Well, fucking hell,” because he hadn’t even thought of Molly's part in all of it, “Mate… Molly’s either the worst fucking pathologist or she was in on it,” _Oh god, she was, she_ _ **was**_ _in on it, she had to have been, she knew, she sat there and fucking lied to my goddamn face. And she didn’t say a fucking thing, not one hint, not one fucking word in two fucking years! “_ because the bastard is alive and well, sitting over at Baker St. right now.”

“What? You’re serious? He's really alive?”

“Serious as a fucking heart attack. Now, I believe you mentioned something about a beer?”

John spent the next week at Lestrade’s flat, not saying much the first few days, until finally Greg poked at him enough to get him to talk. Of course, Lestrade had gone by Baker St. to see for himself that Sherlock was in fact alive and John was not delusional. When John finally talked, Greg just listened and was able to get John to work out a lot of what was going through his mind. Greg did his best, throwing in his comments from time to time, but mostly he just let John just get it all out. _He is a lot smarter_ _than Sherlock gave… I mean,_ gives _him credit for._ Of course, the things that were troubling John the most were the exact things he couldn't talk about with Greg, but he was used to that.

_You've been pining for 2 years for a dead man, now he's here, what did you do, you ran away? What a fucking coward. Fucking pathetic._

Exactly one week later, John was sitting on Greg’s couch, waiting for the text he found himself nervous to get.

_Was he listening when I said one week? Does he even still have my phone number? Did I fuck it up walking away like that? Hell, I didn't let him talk at all, maybe he was just going to tell me to get out, it was his flat first and all. He found he didn't want me around anymore. Oh god, maybe he found someone while he was gone, needs me out of the way._

At 1:45 (to the minute, exactly one week after John walked out of the flat), John felt his phone vibrate on his leg followed by the text alert he has not heard for nearly two years, a short clip of Sherlock playing his violin; one John had recorded without Sherlock knowing.

**Sherlock**

**Received 13:45**

John? - SH

  
**Sherlock**

**Sent 13:46**

_So, you still sign your texts, huh?_

  
**Sherlock**

**Received 13:46**

That's your first question? Really, John. Yes, of course I do.  - SH

 

**Sherlock**

**Sent 13:48**

_How the hell were you able to get back your old number? And please, did you expect me to start with ‘how the fuck are you not dead?’ I have a bit more tact than you, wanker._

 

**Sherlock**

**Received 13:50**

It would appear that Mycroft is good for something now and again. And I can virtually ooze tact if needed. -SH

 

**Sherlock**

**Sent 13:55**

_We need to talk._

 

**Sherlock**

**Received 13:55**

Yes, I believe we do. Will you be coming back to Baker St? -SH

 

**Sherlock**

**Sent 13:57**

_Yes, I can be there in 30, if you want me to?_

 

**Sherlock**

**Received 14:00**

Of course, John. See you then. -SH

 

**Sherlock**

**Sent 14:01**

**:-)**

  
**Sherlock**

**Received 14:02**

A smiley face, John? Really? Emoj-whatevers? You know I despise those things. -SH

 

**Sherlock**

**Sent 14:02**

_I know.  :-) ~_

  
The conversation the two men had, once John got back to the flat (optimistically, with his duffle slung across his shoulder) lasted not nearly as long as one of would expect, considering the circumstances. John had resolved, in the week away from Sherlock, that he would do whatever he had to, in order keep that man in his life. The only thing that he had feared was that Sherlock would only message to tell him that he was done with him, just wanted to make check in and say hi, and now, how to arrange for John to move out and all that. He could not go through the pain of losing him again. But the fact that Sherlock’s message came in, at the exact minute of his departure, and the familiarity of their messages, John's fears were quickly waylaid. He knew, as soon as he stepped out of the cab and in front of that door, he was back home.

Brief explanations were given about Moriarty's snipers, which John already knew. Sherlock apologized for involving Molly, and with a slight look of guilt, did admit that he had visited her before John. _Could that possibly be because you felt guilty turning the most innocent person in the world into a liar…? John, no, don't think like that. Molly doesn't deserve that. Remember, you forgive him, so you forgive her too._

Sherlock also told him briefly what had kept him away for so long, and that for the last 2 years, he had been working to dismantle Moriarty’s web. Sherlock explained how he had expected to be gone no more than six months, but Moriarty’s network was more far-reaching than anyone knew.

“But you’re back now, so it’s done? You took it all down?”

“Yes, it's done. Unfortunately, it was not my fate to “complete the mission,” as they say in those funny movies you like so much. Towards the end here, I found myself the unfortunate guest of some Serbian gentleman; theirs was the very last organization with ties to Moriarty. They did not appreciate my efforts to retire their business ventures entirely. Thankfully, Mycroft had tracked me to the town they operated out of and was able to intervene before too long. But, the mission _is_ now complete, thanks to Mycroft’s involvement.” he said with an obvious sneer.

“But, it is done, though? Moriarty and all his bloody cronies are finished for good?” It amazed John how little he had actually thought of Moriarty the last two years; he'd been drowning in his own misery too completely to worry about any danger left from Moriarty’s associates.

“Yes, John. Two years of work, a lifetime’s worth of travel, too many long hours without sleep, and Moriarty and his entire network are finally gone for good.”

“Yeah, well, sounds like you've been living one of those funny little movies for the last two years.”

“Trust me, the reality is not nearly as entertaining as the movies, John.”

His dismissive tone and steely eyes told John that Sherlock was done talking about that particular subject. John knew that he would talk about it when he wanted to, so John doubted he would ever hear the full story.

The idea that either man would not be living at Baker St. was quickly dismissed. They knew that they had an interesting road ahead of them, with Sherlock being officially dead still, but John was assured that Mycroft was already working on remedying that particular situation. Sherlock’s name had long since been cleared and his reputation restored, and having already spoken to Lestrade, Sherlock was eager to begin cases with John again. They both agreed that life would go back to normal, to the way it all was before.

John knew nothing would really be normal again. He knew now that that he was desperately in love with Sherlock, but with the resurrected man reassuring John that life would soon return to as it was before The Fall, he knew he couldn't say anything. Before The Fall, he didn't say anything, and it would stay like that. He could not risk losing the most important thing in his life by making some misguided romantic gesture when he was 99.999% certain that Sherlock was asexual and would be repelled at John’s inability to control his baser instincts. He would take what he could, simply to be close to him.

They quickly did fall into their old lives, once Sherlock was declared amongst the living once again, which surprisingly took less than a week. _Good to have a brother who is the English government._  They started taking cases again, John started blogging again. Everything was normal, well at least their normal. But it wasn't. John knew it was only his paranoia from living with the most observant man on the planet, but he was so scared that Sherlock would realize John's secret. He knew there was something _off_ between the two of them, knew that he could never be completely open, feeling like he was always some awful deviant for the thoughts he harbored for Sherlock. But he did his best.

And that brought him to where he was now. Six months of torture, being so close to one thing he could never have, and now blindly volunteering to be that much closer to him, not realizing the implications of his offer. He would be inches from his face, breathing his same air, touching him in insanely intimate ways. _What in the Great Buggering FUCK was I thinking? God, maybe a drink wouldn't be a terrible fucking idea. And what the fuck is he acting like this for??_

After what seemed like endless hours of these thoughts tumbling around in his skull, John finally heard the faint sounds of Sherlock heading down the front stairs to get the food. He knew he only had a few moments to get his brain and emotions back under control and he silently thanked Ella for the few breathing exercises she had taught him before he stopped seeing her all together. John concentrated on the sounds of Sherlock moving about the flat, trying to imagine what the Detective was doing; getting the plates, taking boxes of food out of bags, grabbing utensils. John knew Sherlock would be hollering up the stairs any moment for him. What John wasn't expecting though, were the quiet sounds of Sherlock’s steps heading up to his room. John quickly turned to his side, facing away from the door.

_When the fuck has he ever take the time to actually walk up here? And who the fuck do I fucking think I'm kidding, acting like I'm asleep? He knows I'm awake, wanker can tell, can probably count my heartbeat from there or some shite._

John heard a gentle knock at his door.

“John? John, food's ready.”

“Mmm… Yeah yeah, I'm awake. Thanks, be down in a second.”

“Take your time. Would you like some tea?”

_What the fuck?_

“Uh… I mean, yes, thank you, that'd be great. Good, I mean. Thanks.”

_John, you are a fucking idiot._

“Okay, I'll just be downstairs, then.” Sherlock paused a moment, like he was about to say something more, but changed his mind, before heading down. John sat up and ran his hands over his face and through his hair to try to wipe away the insanity going on inside his skull.

_What the fuck have I gotten myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was a bit longer in posting this update. I threw my shoulder out last week and typing has been a giant pain (literally). Hope the wait was worth it!
> 
> Again, not brit-picked or beta'd, so please, let me know what I screwed up!
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment, I love hearing from y'all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many feelings in one day. Can John keep the whirlwind of emotions under control?

John took a deep breath, got up and headed to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he rested his forehead against the cool wood for just a few more moments, and rallied his thoughts under some semblance of control before opening the door and heading down the stairs. He was the one that volunteered his help, he couldn’t fuck it up now because he couldn’t control himself. _God, it’s like I’m a fucking hormonal 15 year old again._

He made it down, carefully screwed his face to normal before taking one last calming breath, one last internal pep talk, and walked into the sitting room. _ _ __You have managed to keep yourself in control for six goddamn months, you can manage two fucking hours. You are Doctor John Fucking Watson, Goddamn Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You fucking invaded Afghanistan! Now stop being such a fucking coward!____

He walked through the door and turned toward the kitchen, where he had to stop in his tracks for a second, because again, Sherlock surprised him. John was expecting the usual riot of take-away boxes strewn across any available surface, waiting for John to pick through. But no, not only had Sherlock arranged everything rather neatly on the counter, John could see that he had laid out of a plate of exactly what John had been planning to eat at the table, real utensils and all. Sherlock set a cup of tea down next to John’s plate, the colour telling him Sherlock had added just the right amount of milk. _How the hell did he remember exactly how I take my tea?_ He thought as he sat down. _Jesus, When was the last time we actually ate at the table?_ With a slight pang in his chest, he realized they hadn’t done this since Sherlock had been back. 

“Sherlock, thank you. This is nice. Really nice.”

“It’s nothing, John. It is the least I can do to thank you for helping me with the case.” He laid a napkin down next to John’s plate, then turned to the fridge, “Would you like a beer? I think there’s still few hiding in here from the last time Graham was over.” 

“Graham? Oh, you mean Greg… Lestrade?” 

“Yes, whatever his name is. Not important.” 

A beer was exactly what John needed right now. He had been known, in his younger days, after a few too many, to suddenly become terribly honest, but one wouldn’t do anything, except calm a nerve or two. “Yeah, a beer would be great. Thanks Sherlock.” He said as the younger man handed him a bottle. He popped open the bottle, and took a drink. “I’ll be honest with you,” he started as he began eating “I’m kinda looking forward to this. Like I said before, I was really good at it and well, I kinda miss doing it. It’s been years.” 

Sherlock took a long swig of his own beer as he sat down, then tilted his head just a touch, “Sort of like an exiled painter being allowed his brushes again?” A curious smile ghosted across his face as he looked across at John and began eating quietly.

John was always surprised how a man, who was so often accused of being an emotionless sociopath, was able to express feelings so poetically. 

“Yeah, well, something like that, though I don’t know if I would go so far with the comparison to myself. I'm good, but... yeah. And well... I… I mean... you have an… well, an interesting face to work with.” 

_Interesting? Interesting?? Bit not good. Jesus, exact fucking opposite of being able to express things poetically John._

“Yes, I’m well aware of the peculiarities of my face. I’ve had it staring back at me for thirty plus years now, John.” The younger man said, with a slight sneer John happened to catch as he looked up. 

_Peculiar? Like weird… That’s what he thinks when he looks at himself? No, no, no….   Can he not see how fucking impossibly gorgeous he is?_

“No, you berk. Not peculiar. Peculiar means something… well.. odd, and odd usually has a negative connotation. Your face isn’t that at all.” _No, it's fucking beautiful, ya twat, but I can't really come out and say that, now can I?_

“Well, thank you for the vocabulary lesson, John. Fine… how would you describe it?” He asked as he continued eating while avoiding John's eyes.

“Hell, Sherlock, and I mean this as objectively as possible, but I don’t think there’s one word in the English language that best describes your face. But trust me,” he quickly added after seeing a flash of a frown on Sherlock's face, “that’s good thing.” He set his chopsticks down to concentrate. “I guess if I had to pick one word, ‘stunning’ is as close as I can think.” _Careful John, there was a definite look in his eye on that one…._ “Ok, first of all, you have a face that captures one’s attention; very distinct, regal features, like some antique Roman sculpture - the nose, the distinct lips, and I'm sorry but, bloody hell, do you realize how much some professional Queens would pay a doctor to get cheekbones like yours? And don’t even get me started on your eyes...” He gave out a small huff of a laugh, then gave himself a slight stall, by grabbing a bite of his lunch. This is the most he has ever said out loud about Sherlock’s physical appearance, and he knew how careful he had to be.

_There is a very fine line between making objective observations about the general physical attractiveness of your drop-dead gorgeous, probably asexual flatmate, and making it painfully obvious how goddamn much you think about Sherlock’s face and what you want to do with it. How you have spent countless hours imagining that face sweaty, flushed, lost in pleasure._

“Yes, I know, they are strange, never deciding on a colour.” 

“No, Sherlock, not strange. They’re fascinating. Plus, hate to tell you, but they do a pretty good job of telling me what kind of mood you’re in. By the way, you know what it’s called, right?”

“Excuse me, what what’s called?”

“Your eyes…. the reason they look the way they do?” When Sherlock shook his head, John was surprised, “You have heterochromia. Means your irises have different colours in them, like that spot of brown in your right eye. Not like us boring folk with only one colour.”

“Never realized there was name for the condition.”

“Really? I would’ve thought that you’d been researching that out by the time you were five. I always thought it was pretty interesting, actually; how a tiny little genetic mutation can cause something that looks so….” 

“Freakish?”

“Freaki…. No! Not at all Sherlock, what the hell?” John hated that word, boiled his blood every time one of the Yarders called Sherlock by that awful name. To hear Sherlock use it to describe any part of himself was unbearable. He stabbed the air in front of him with his chopsticks, “You’d know I’d never say that. In all the years I have known you, have you ever heard that word come out of my lips to describe ANYTHING about you?”

“No…. you haven’t.” he said softly, “Thank you for that, by the way. Listen John, I know my eyes are strange, but I never really bothered to study anything about myself, when there was too much out in the world to learn. No need to fuss over myself.”

And there it was. Sherlock did not think he was interesting enough to study. The arguments that John could throw at him could fill books, no… libraries. Here, a man so utterly fascinated with the world around him, could not see how utterly fascinating he himself was.

“I just thought, that’s where you would’ve started. I mean hell, I know my brain is nothing compared to yours, I know that, but when I was around maybe nine or ten, I realized not everyone could pull their thumb back like I can.” Which John proceeded to show Sherlock he could do; pulling his thumb down to rest flat against his forearm, stretching his wrist down at a ludicrous angle. He felt a brief moment of pride when he saw Sherlock’s gaze widen noticeably, as always fascinated by the slightly grotesque. “My teacher told me I was “double-jointed”. So, I looked it up, thought it was pretty cool. Found out more about it when I got older - that it had a real medical name, hypermobility, and that kinda triggered my interest in medicine a bit, seeing the different things that the human body was capable of. So, my tiny moment of narcissism got me where I am now. Not going to complain about that.”

Sherlock had started the part of the meal were he merely shuffled his food around, like John wouldn't notice the amount on the plate wasn't shrinking, just changing shape. After a few quiet moments, he sighed loudly and set the chopsticks down.

“Oh, what's to complain about John? You're just stuck with a sociopath who led you to believe that he was dead for two years for a flatmate, an insane lifestyle that has nearly killed you on eighteen separate occasions, and a non-existent love life since I am apparently a, what did Donovan call me, oh, a “man-child” that doesn't understand social constructs and has managed to ruin all attempts you've made to connect romantically with someone. Sounds just perfect.”

John was surprised by Sherlock’s outburst. While he would never be so foolish as to make it sound like living with him was a picnic, Sherlock had never so openly admitted to what he believed were his faults. John could not have him thinking that he would want any other life than this (well, except with a few minor modifications). 

“Yeah, what I said, nothing to complain about. First, don’t give me that sociopath bullshit. We both know that’s a load of bollocks, because yes, you were gone for two years and it was one of the hardest fucking times of my life, and may I remind you, I have been to war and I have been shot, but I know you did it to save our lives, to protect us. A “sociopath” would never have done that, and I just can't be mad about it anymore. I was, please God, you know I was furious at you. That's why I had to stay away from the flat for that week. I had to go sort it all out in my head. Secondly, I chose this lifestyle, you twit. Because I did come back, correct? Back to what we had, living here together, back at Baker St.? I could have not come back, ya know? Moved out, found another flat. But I didn’t. Why? Because I like this crazy fucking life of ours, ya arse! If you hadn’t noticed yet, and I know you have, since you’re the smartest one in the room, I am an adrenaline junkie; I get off on the chases, the stand-offs, all that! And the love-life,” John said with a laugh, “Well, I was doing a shite job of that completely on my own before you left, and I haven’t really been doing any serious looking since, so you can stop blaming yourself for that one. Though, I will most definitely concede, you are a man-child.” John smiled and kicked his eyebrow at Sherlock, hoping he’d at least get a grin out of the man, which after a moment, he did. It was a small smile, but one that warmed John’s heart nonetheless. It was one of Sherlock’s most beautiful; the gentle one that only _just_ reached his eyes; the one that happened when he wanted to act unaffected, but couldn’t stop the tiny little smile lines from betraying him.

John hadn’t been planning on this little monologue, but goddammit, he didn’t want to see Sherlock descend into one of his dark moods. While there were many thoughts unspoken as to why he thought he had an _almost_ perfect life with Sherlock and even more unspoken was what John wanted in order to make it perfect, it would never change the fact that John still loved Sherlock as his best friend above all else, and he wanted Sherlock to at least know how much he valued him for that.

Sherlock was quiet, processing what John said, until finally he just uttered a flippant “Ok John, if you say so.” They were never ones to talk about feelings and all that, preferring obviously to keep all that nonsense hush-hush and under the rug, like the proper Englishmen they were. John had found getting at least some of his feelings off his chest easier to do than he would had thought, though he still carefully picked his words. There would always be emotions he begrudgingly kept under that rug, as long as it meant he could keep what he now had with Sherlock.

The rest of the meal, the two men sat quietly, finishing their food in an _almost_ comfortable silence. There was a shadow of anticipation, at least for John, as he sat there thinking about time slipping away, getting closer to he and Sherlock getting very close, very personal. He slowed down his eating as he started to get full, allowing himself to look over the table at Sherlock. His friend had gotten out his phone and started typing away as he picked at his food, still pushing the bits of meat and vegetables around his plate more than actually eating anything.

“Sherlock, I need you to please eat more. You can't fool me by just simply changing the shape of the food, I can tell how much is still there. Come on, you like the stuff with the chicken and broccoli… Eat. I'll let you guess my fortune cookie….” He said with an over-exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrow.

“John, you are worse than Grand-Mere and Mrs. Hudson combined.” he said as he continued to look down at his phone, but he did pick up a piece of chicken. John watched as he brought it to his lips. Right before he was about to bite into it, Sherlock stopped, looked up, kicked an eyebrow, pointed his chopsticks at the good doctor, and said, “But from you said earlier, I'm guessing they both look better in dresses than you, hmm?”

“That is the understatement of the century, mate!” The two men looked at each other and started laughing. It was the good laugh that tickled your soul, dug down deep and took root. The sound of Sherlock's laugh cleared out much of the bullshit nagging at John like a warm summer breeze sweeping away the cobwebs of doubt. After a few minutes of this, he finally caught his breath, wiped his eye of the tears collecting, and realized how lucky he was.

John got up and took his plate to the sink, looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock picking at his food, taking a few more bites of chicken before getting distracted by his phone again. John could see that he had eaten over half his plate, which was beyond his expectations. He loved how Sherlock had a habit of doing what John suggested, just as long as he wasn’t paying attention.

John checked the time on his phone, seeing how long they had till they needed to get to work. It was only about four, _We have another two hours or so, good…. there’s still plenty of time_. He got the kettle going again, figured no rush, another cuppa was definitely in order.

Sherlock was now fully engaged with his phone, so John started clearing the table, picking at the food as he put the leftovers away. He was content, with a full belly and yes, a full mind, but John was certainly used to that. The kettle clicked off, and John took a moment to make them each a new cup. The routine domesticity of cleaning up and making their tea helped clear John's mind to the task at hand. 

Once John was done, he leaned against the counter and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. The detective looked up with surprise, like he had forgotten John was there, and shook his head to clear his mind. John handed Sherlock his tea, which he took; a soft smile on his face as he lifted the cup to take a drink. He took a sip, then set it on the table and back on to his phone he went.

“Hey big brain. Think you might want to show me what…. “supplies” you got for tonight? I need to see if there’s anything else I’ll have to run out for while we still have time.” 

“Everything is in the bathroom, John.” He made a vague gesture towards the bathroom as if John needed a reminder of its location. The genius was engrossed on his phone so he obviously couldn’t be bothered to get up to show John what he had bought. John sighed, pushed himself off the counter, carefully walking behind Sherlock and made his way down to the bathroom to see for himself. When John turned into the room, he saw what had been cause of the racket he heard when he first entered the flat. Scattered across the floor was a small case and at least a dozen or so make-up brushes.

_Ahhh...So that answers that question. Must have chucked them all against the wall… yup, there’s the make-up smears…_

John picked up the brushes and case before picking at the bit of splatter from the brush collision on the wall across from the mirror. When he turned around, and finally got a good look at the make-up selection that Sherlock picked up, he was stunned speechless. Not only had Sherlock picked up a veritable _shit ton_ of make-up; palettes of every colour scheme and shine -  mattes, glossy, metallics, shines, shimmers, glitters, everything... all laid out on two small folding tables Sherlock had set up near the mirror; they were also all very high-end, very expensive brands. Brands that John would have done damn near anything to have the chance to work with back in the day. John was 100% certain that everything sitting in front of him cost more than he made in a week at the clinic. He was so engrossed at looking at the make-up in front of him that he jumped as he heard a small cough at the door.

“Will this selection work, John?” Sherlock was leaning against the door frame, looking down at his phone, doing his best to look bored and dismissive, but John could see that line of tension in Sherlock’s shoulders and the slight pinch of his lips when he finally looked up at John that told him that Sherlock was actually worried about what he thought of his purchases. 

“Yeah, Sherlock, I’d say that. I'd say this'll all work just fine.” John let out a quiet laugh, happily seeing the tension leave Sherlock. “What did you do, buy one of everything at the most expensive make-up counter you could find?” 

“Well, I haven’t really done this before, John, now have I?” he said defiantly, “I didn’t exactly know what was going to work for me, so I went to the shop that was suggested by the club owner and just started picking up what caught my eye. I’m not even certain what all of this is. The saleswoman got very excited and started suggesting products and…. Well, here we are.” The beautiful madman gestured towards the bevy of products sitting on the tables as he strolled into the room before sitting on the edge of the tub.

“Well, you have a damn good eye, these are all really good picks.”

“Thank you, John. I am sorry about the brushes. I got so bloody frustrated, it would not look like I intended it to, no matter what I tried. Guess you’re not the only one with a bit of a temper. I don’t think I damaged them, though. Oh wait,” he said, picking up a small one out of John's hand where the brush head had come off the handle. “I am sorry about that, John.”

“It’s not a worry, Sherlock. Here, actually, take these.” He handed the brushes over “I wouldn’t have been using them anyway. Wait here, I want to show you something.” 

John had been looking forward to this moment. He was finally able to show Sherlock one of the few material possessions that he owned that he truly valued. He went back to the sitting room to grab the case that he had brought down from his room, then went back to the bathroom and the waiting Sherlock. 

He handed the case to Sherlock, who had quite the curious look on his face. “Go ahead, you can take a look.” 

Sherlock looked over the outside of the case, with its intricate inlays, done in designs of celtic knotwork. “This is beautiful work John, but what is it?” 

“Open it and see.”

Sherlock unhooked the small latch keeping it shut and slowly opened the top of the case. After seeing the contents, he looked up at John with something akin to awe on his face. 

“Just in case you doubted that I serious, that this really meant a lot to me, those are my brushes. The only ones I ever used.”

“These are beautiful John, may I?” Sherlock gestured down to the case, barely containing his desire to take a closer look. 

“Of course. But please, don't be throwing these at the bloody wall.” John said with a smile as he leaned back against the sink.

Sherlock smiled apologetically, the look of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar spread across his face. His expression turned to one of near reverence as he looked back at the contents of the case sitting on his lap.

_That's one thing he and I can agree on, appreciating good craftsmanship, valuing things that take time to create._

The case was built in such a way that the different pockets inside could be pulled out and lined up within the case for ease of use. Sherlock did this, the gently pulled out one of the brushes to look at closer at the intricate celtic knotwork designs on the handle.

“Is this all hand carved, John?”

“Yup. Can you figure it out what kind of wood it is?” Sherlock took his time looking over the brush, stopping just shy of licking the damn thing, then took another out and did the same.

“I believe it is… Elm?” Sherlock said with a faint air of uncertainty.

“Brilliant, of course, correct in one. Any guesses to why?” John looked at him with a tilt to his head.

“Not in the slightest John.” The doctor was surprised, he was certain Sherlock knew a bit of everything. _Eh, he probably did know, but deleted it._

John took the case and brush Sherlock was holding, closed the seat of the toilet and sat down. “These were given to me, by Harry, for my birthday about a year after I started doing her make-up. They were custom made by a friend of a friend. Bitch stole my brushes for a week to get them ordered, I went mad looking for them. She had saved up and had custom, high quality brushes made that were essentially copies of all the shitty brushes I had collected during that first year.” 

Sherlock looked surprised at the gesture. “That was very nice of her” 

“Yeah, it really was, I was really amazed by it. Now, I know you know all about the language of flowers, what do they call that… floro-ology or something?”

“Floriography, John, the Victorian language of flowers.” He said haughtily.

“Right, that. Do you know about the symbolism of trees?

“Not nearly as much as I do about flowers, to be honest.”

“Ok, so different types of trees, different meanings or symbolism, same deal. Came out of the older religions though, the Druids and Celts, but same notion as your flower thing. Harry had always loved the old fairy tales our grandmother told us when we were kids, and she kept up with it as we got older. Long story short, she said, according to the old stories, elm symbolizes intuition and inner strength, loyalty to a fault and the temper of a goddamn berserker. So, when she saw that elm was an option for the handles, she had to get them.” 

Sherlock sat there for a moment, rolling over John’s words, then, “Yes, that certainly sounds like you, John. Good to know your basic personality has not changed since then.” He looked up at John with a soft smile in his eyes. “But John, your loyalty will never be a fault; it is and will always be one of your most enduring personality traits. And please, don’t think of your temper as a bad thing.” John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock stopped him, “I know you think it is, by the way you talk about it, like it is this separate entity inside of you that you must control. I don’t know if it’s because of how others in your family managed their temper, but John, you are not them. Your temper does nothing but show the passion you have for your life and for those that you care about and well, it has saved my life a number of times; at least five, if I were to make a conservative estimate. I’d not have you any other way.”

_umm ok, wow, yeah wow..._

___God, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? You're being so goddamn nice, but you're perfectly content with this. Just this, nothing more. Don’t you see?? I_ want _you to see me another way!__ _

“Well, thanks for that, I guess. I have saved your arse plenty of times, haven’t I?” John said with a chuckle. Sherlock just ducked his chin and smiled.

“So, yeah.” _Ok, this needs to stop, this sentimental shite. You’re killing me Sherlock. Earlier you say the word like it’s the nastiest curse, and now look at you._

“There are a few small things that I do need to run out for. We still have plenty of time.”

“What else do you need? I thought I would have plenty here for you to use, John.” the detective said with a smile.

“Well, I do have a few tricks up my sleeve, ya git. And for that, I need things you don’t buy at the cosmetics counter.” John couldn’t help but grin at the squint in Sherlock’s eye. _He just fucking hates not knowing everything!_ “I’m going the run down to the shop, pick up what I need, and then I will be back.” He stood up and looked down at the plethora of make-up in front of him. “Ya know, I think it would be best if we did this in the kitchen; more room, and a bigger table to lay out everything. While I’m out, would you mind… eh, never mind.”

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asked as he stood up from his spot on the tub.

“I was just going to ask if you’d move this stuff to the kitchen table, but I imagine you probably still have a lot of work to do before tonight, so I’ll just get it when I get back.”

“No… I mean, yes,” Sherlock quickly corrected himself, “I’m still looking over the employee files the owner sent over, but I can move this into the kitchen, that’s hardly a problem, John.”

“Thanks mate.” John stepped out of the bathroom, smiling to himself, to grab his jacket and wallet. He could get used to this nicer, softer Sherlock. _Of course, not forever, wouldn’t be him if he was nice and considerate all the time. Wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with myself._ While looking around for wherever he left his phone, Sherlock had already begun moving things into the kitchen.

“Is there any particular way you want these all laid out? Do you have a system?”

“Yeah, kinda, but don’t worry about that. I’ll get it all set up when I get back. Ah ha!” Finally seeing his phone peeking out from the cushion of his chair, he grabbed it with a triumphant shout, and then turned to the door. Sherlock was in the bathroom, gathering up supplies, so John hollered in his direction, “I’ll be back in a few. If there’s anything you can think of that we need while I’m out, just text me, k?”

Sherlock was coming out of the bathroom, carrying more of the make-up, “Yes, John, of course.”

John made it down to the front door, hand on the knob, when Sherlock popped open the door to the flat, almost looking surprised John was still there. “We need milk, John!”

“Of course we do, don’t we always?” He laughed, Sherlock gave him an odd look, and then he was out the door with a smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I am still getting used to this whole "writing for an (albeit small) audience thing." I'm trying to get this right for y'all!
> 
> As always, I love love love to hear from you, comments are golden!
> 
> Let me know any glaring mistakes, because, again, unbeta'd/Brit-picked and somehow typos manage to survive me re-reading this 148 times before posting.
> 
> Find me over on Tumblr:
> 
>  
> 
> [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is coming to terms with what he's offered Sherlock - feeling all the feels.

The walk to the shop was just what John needed to clear his mind. He knew tonight wasn’t going to be easy, but he was starting to feel more comfortable about the whole thing. He didn’t understand Sherlock’s behavior, but he wasn’t going to lie to himself, he didn’t mind it. He liked this softer, nicer Sherlock. He liked knowing that his sharp bristling edges could soften, to know that he was actually capable of… well… something. His behaviour had gone beyond cordial and was now close to affectionate, but was it really?

_I’m sure I’m just projecting. As he never fails to remind me, I am the sentimental one._

He admitted to himself that it had felt good to get at least some of the things rolling around in his head out; to let Sherlock know, just a tiny bit, of how much John appreciated him. John knew the man didn’t hear it near enough. Sherlock did so much for so many, though he would never be the one to expect gratitude. He would continue you the Work with or without praise, and something about that drove John insane. The man has dismantled an entire International criminal network, how many lives did that save?? Most of the population just took him for granted; dismissed as an oddity or face splashed across the gossip rags. Or worse yet, and this coming from those who should be thanking him the most, called names like Freak, ridiculed for his unorthodox methods and his... _disinterest_ in social norms. But John was tired of norms. He liked his decidedly abnormal life with Sherlock, though he could understand while most people didn’t quite understand the appeal.

 _I’ll say this, today has turned out to be one hell of a weird one. Considering how fucking weird our “normal” is, that’s saying a hell of a lot. You got Sherlock in horrible drag makeup, I just came out…again. And to the one person I desperately want but seemingly has absolutely no interest in me or anyone else. I offer to do the git’s makeup, so he doesn’t look like an utter slag, AND he’s being really fucking nice! Huh… that’s probably the weirdest part of the day when you think about it. Well, so far at least._ He thought with a slight cringe, _Knock on wood, it’s still early…._

John’s mind shifted to what will be the focus of his evening. John meant what he said earlier, he was looking forward to this; being able to use a long-neglected talent again. John was never one to boast about himself, but this was something he was keenly proud of. He knew he was a competent doctor, he had had success as a soldier, and seemed to make himself useful to Sherlock’s Work. But this - this was something he was good at naturally and he had done it for no reason other than he had wanted to. Growing up, creative outlets weren’t exactly encouraged in the Watson household, so for John to have found something that allowed him to get that creative spark out into the world had been truly eye-opening for him. 

And not to mention, he thought as a beautiful shit-eating grin spread across his face, _I know that Sherlock will look fucking stunning when I am done._

John had an idea of how he wanted to do Sherlock’s makeup for tonight, but nothing concrete. That’s how John worked. He hated planning out design too much before he started. He’d have a style idea, based off the costume or the routine, but then just let it happen, let inspiration take him. He had spent so many hours of his life enraptured by Sherlock’s face, he had no doubt he would create a masterpiece. _That face is already a bloody masterpiece, my job won’t be that hard._ He had to; had to do an amazing job for Sherlock. It wasn’t just because of the case either. He wanted to show Sherlock that he could excel at something. He had long since accepted the fact that he would always be the sidekick to Sherlock’s hero. It never had bothered him; hell, he was happy to be the mediocre Everyman in Sherlock’s brilliant story in any way he could. But there would always be a part of him that wanted to make the mad genius proud. 

 _Oh, fucking hell!_ John stopped in his tracks as he approached the shop. _I never asked him about what he’s doing for his routine! Shit, John, you are out of fucking practice with this. Ok, no worries, can still ask when you get back. Speaking of which though… when the fuck did he have time to work out and learn a whole routine??_

He finally made his way into the shop, chastising himself for forgetting something so simple. He walked the aisles, picking up a few things here and there that he might need for tonight, including a few things he could trick Sherlock to eating if he needed, and of course, he did not forget the precious milk needed for Sherlock’s tea. As he waited in line, he looked into the basket, knowing that a few items were going to get a raised eyebrow or two from Sherlock. Seeing as he and Harry were broke Uni students when he last did this, there were times when you had to hack your way through some obstacles, using seemingly questionable but surprisingly effective methods, because the “real” solution was too damn expensive. John’s earlier suggestion of coconut oil as makeup remover was one of a myriad of examples he could give you. While he wasn’t a broke Uni kid anymore, those hacked ways were what John learned, it’s what he knew, and what he was going to stick with.

_Not all of us have been blessed an overstuffed trust fund. We had to make do with what we could find. And maybe, just maybe, I like seeing you squirm when my plebeian ways work out, ya posh bastard._

He managed to pay without getting into a row with the machine this time, which put him in a slightly better mood. John was an intelligent man, (maybe not by Sherlock’s standards, but really, who was?) a medical doctor for god’s sake, but for some reason, that little machine despised him, and relished in making his day miserable. He finished up, gathered his bags, made his way back to the flat, thinking maybe getting through the line easily was a good sign. 

As John walked in, Sherlock was sitting on the couch, this time, _surprise surprise_ , on John’s laptop again. John stopped, shook his head and walked into the kitchen to put the bags from the shop on the counter. He looked down at the table and saw that Sherlock had brought everything in from the bathroom and managed to arrange everything very close to how John would’ve. _Wow, am I that fucking predictable? He gets my food exactly right, puts the makeup out just about how I would. God, how dull can you be, old man?_

As he began unloading the bags, he looked over at the detective typing away at the keys with lightning speed. An odd, yet familiar mix of irritation and affection bloomed in his chest.

“You know, Sherlock, you do have your own laptop, you don’t have to steal mine all the time.”

Without looking up from his apparent research, “Boring. I’m not stealing it John, I am simply borrowing it for a moment.”

“Using or taking… _without permission_ … that’s stealing. It was locked, I have a password on it, which I did not give you, by the way." He leaned against the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room, looking at Sherlock, “That means it's not yours Sherlock – don’t use it without asking first. Where the hell is yours?” 

“I don’t know, probably in my bedroom,” he said with a dismissive wave, “Needed a laptop immediately, and I knew yours would be still with your luggage from your trip.”

“Really, Sherlock…so, you have the energy to walk up and go into my room, _without permission,_ but can’t be arsed to actually spend time looking for yours?? Sherlock…. Password protected? Does that mean anything to you?” Trying to get the detective to understand John’s need for some modicum of privacy in his life was a near impossible task. _Sherlock, just a little, please. I need to have something that’s just mine, you’re in my bloody thoughts too damn much as it is. Of course, you don’t see any of that, probably just see the thrill of getting the password right._

“It wasn’t difficult to figure out really. 9thDoctor4Life! Easy.”

“How in the hell could you have possibly figured that out??”

“I saw you changing your password last Sunday.” John remembered the day well. It had been the day before he had left for the conference. He had worked on his blog since he didn’t know if he would have the chance while he was away. Sherlock was engrossed in some experiment in the kitchen. John had been certain Sherlock wasn’t even aware he had been in the flat with him all day. 

“So, what? You looked when I was changing it? That’s cheating Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s look of indignation at the implication he would use such a vulgar method was almost amusing enough to make John forget he was pissed that Sherlock had been in up in his room and was using his laptop in the first place. “No, John I did not look, I deduced, that’s what I do.”

“Then how the hell could you possibly deduce my bloody password?” John said through slightly clenched teeth.

Sherlock looked up from the screen after a brief sigh, setting the computer next to him on the couch. He looked up, turned his head slightly, right into John’s eyes. John could hear the sharp intake of breath, saw the man’s eyebrow tick up ever so slightly, and he knew what Sherlock was about to do, and it thrilled him, despite his anger, despite the fact that he was to be the unwilling focus of Sherlock’s deductions. “You always turn yourself ever so slightly whenever you are inputting a password, so that the screen and keyboard are not visible to me. You were in your chair, updating your blog with the details of the McDunnin case. There was a Doctor Who marathon on; you spent the entire day watching it. At one point, you turned like do when you were inputting a password, but you were slower inputting it, or slower than normal. You started and erased several attempts before sitting forward again so it was apparent that you had either mistyped your normal password several times, or you were changing it; I allowed myself one brief glance to see you were on the start-up screen, to confirm my suspisions. Now, odds were on you changing the password, as it had been close to three months since you had last updated it. Immediately prior to this, you had made a comment about the Ninth Doctor being your favorite from the new series and between the aborted attempts at a new password, your eyes settled on the telly, therefore likely to include a reference to what you had been watching. You use numbers for words whenever possible, previously using the “4life” moniker in passwords on several occasions, you always capitalize the first letter of words used, and you do tend to add an exclamation point at the end to give you the non-alphanumeric character that most passwords require.”

_Fuck. That is Amazing._

_….I mean, he is. Me? Well yeah, fucking predictable. Dull. Average. Boring. Well, at least I cleared my search history…. Though if he thought about those things, I’m sure he’d knows every porn site I use anyway. And why… oh god…._

John chuckled but cringed to himself thinking how awkward it would have been if he hadn’t. John had just spent nearly a week on his own in a rather nice hotel in another country. He was afforded an amount of privacy that he had not had in a very long time, and he had made very good use of the free Wi-Fi at the hotel for some “adult-oriented research.” John had just finally outed himself as Bi, he definitely did not need Sherlock knowing his wank preferences, and how often the actors in clips he watched followed a certain physical aesthetic that just happens to match his flatmate’s. John found though, that the fantasies in his own head were really all he needed. The actors were all fine examples of the male species, but nothing compared to the visions of the man himself, which John had well-memorized.

“OK, fine, you got me all figured out.” He said to the brunet, perhaps a little harsher than he may have intended, as he sat in his chair. “I'm predictable, I get it, no real shocker there. But Sherlock, can you please just stop taking my shit without asking.”

Sherlock looked up at John with something akin to scorn or maybe exasperation, his eyes drawn together, scrunching up the space between, then shook his head before zeroing his icey-blue gaze at John. 

“John, you are far from predictable.”

“Right. Let’s see, today alone, you plate out what I was looking forward to eating, lay the makeup out pretty much exactly how much I used to do it 15 years ago, and it probably took you less time to guess my password than I did creating the damn thing. I’m predictable." 

“John, again, I hate repeating myself. I spend more time with you than any other person. I’m bound to catch on to a few things from time to time. Trust me, you are the least predictable person I know." 

“Really? You had me pegged within 30 seconds of walking into that lab when we first met.” 

“Yes, I deduced you John, that’s what I do. But what I deduced about you; that was merely surface information. Yes, I was able to deduce that you were an invalided army doctor, that you had a sibling with a drinking problem and a marriage in disarray. But that is not you, John. Or better said, that is only the very tip of the iceberg that is the unpredictable mystery that is you, John. You continue to surprise me every day. The advantage to a brain that works as quickly as mine, is that I have learned to study my reactions; we wouldn’t want you to get too full of yourself if you knew how much time I have spent analyzing your behavior. But I will let you know this: you are a puzzle that I rather enjoy working out, and that is something that has never happened to me before. You should be proud of yourself.” There was a finality to his statement, and he promptly was back at the laptop, typing away, as if nothing was different.

John had no idea what to say to this. He heard everything that Sherlock had said, but he could not trust that the inner working of his ears and brain had correctly interpreted the words. “ _How much time I have spent analyzing your behavior” He… actually thinks…. about me? When I'm not around? He barely pays attention when I am here. “A puzzle I rather enjoy working out.” What? No? I’m no puzzle. There's nothing to figure out about me, I'm just…. John. He may be a genius, but sometimes he is such an idiot._

John wished he had a similarly quick brain, because he knew that he was certainly making a face that would make Sherlock take back everything he just said. As it were, he was extremely grateful, at least for this one time, of his beautiful flatmate's ever-changing point of interest. His interest in John's laptop made the doctor lose any anger he had previously felt at him using it. _Thank you, you blessed machine for keeping his interest, so my face can go back to a normal damn colour._

To give him something to do; to maintain some veneer of control over himself, John got up to finish arranging the set-up on the table. He really just had to shift a few things, considering where the two of them were going to sit while doing this. Thinking he could do for some more light, as it was getting later, he went up to his room to grab the reading light he kept on his bedside table. He plugged it in, setting it on the counter.   _Well, that won’t do, that’ll do nothing but give me shadows on the other side of his face…. Ah! Mrs. Hudson!_

John ran down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, first enduring the gush of his not-housekeeper after his near-week long absence. He asked if he could please use one of the lights she used for her “herbal soothers” growing in her sitting room. He assured her that he would not let Sherlock near it, and that John would return it in pristine shape; even promised that if somehow the maniac managed to harm or alter the lamp in any way, John would replace it.

He came back up the flat and situated the other lamp on the table, moving it and the other lamp this way and that to get the light exactly where he wanted. 

“Hey Sherlock!” he turned and was surprised to find the detective standing behind him in the doorway to the kitchen, watching him intently. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You scared the shit out of me! I swear to Christ, I'm getting you a bell.”

“A bell?” Sherlock gave him a curious look. 

“Yeah, so you stop creeping up on me like that! How you manage to know where all the creaky spots are amazes the hell out of me.”

“I mapped them all out when you were at work when we first moved in.”

John had to laugh at the mental image of Sherlock, tiptoeing around, probably with a blueprint of the flat, marking out the different spots where the floors creaked. Like some mad genius version of “The floor is lava” game.

“What?” Sherlock asked with a challenging grin and quirk of his head.

“Nothing. Just something I can see you doing. There's a real physical map of the squeaky spots around here somewhere, isn't there?”

“Perhaps…” Sherlock said, a grin creeping across his face. 

“Yeah, only you.” John looked up at Sherlock, shook his head and smiled. This… this is why John loved Sherlock so very much. These tiny, quiet moments. No one else got to have these, no one else had the honour of seeing Sherlock like this in the unimportant times. This absolutely unique creature was and always would be, the most important person in John's life.

The warm feeling blooming across his chest gave John a push towards boldness that surprised him. He reached up and laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, gave a squeeze and without removing it, said, “I think it's getting to be about time to started. You ready?”

Sherlock glanced over for a long moment at John's hand, still resting on his shoulder, before turning his gaze straight to John's eyes. “Yes, John. I think it is time,” before letting out a quiet breath that John could only just hear. 

John tenderly squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder again, not questioning it, not worrying for once that Sherlock could see that he cared for him. Sherlock wasn’t drawing away or closing off. If John could find a way for more of these brief and beautiful touches to be a comfortable part of their lives, he would be happy. It would likely be torturous as well, but John could live with that.

“Right,” John said as he let go of Sherlock to rest his hands on the back of the kitchen chair, “I’d like for you to please, go wash your face again, make sure you're shaved down really well, then dry off, and get some of that poncy lotion of yours on it. You are about to have a lot of shit put on your face, and we can’t ruin that immaculate complexion of yours.”        

After a beat, Sherlock pushed himself off the door frame without a word, before sauntering down to the bathroom. But John could swear, for just a moment, he saw a faint blush of pink on the younger man’s cheeks as he walked by the table. _Must have been a trick of the light, John, nothing else._ Unfortunately, all that thought did was make a matching shade of pink light upon John’s cheeks as well.

John sat down at the table and rested his head on his hands waiting for Sherlock to come out. When he heard the door opening again, he looked up to see Sherlock coming down the hallway, with the bandana from earlier in his hand. “Do you want me to wear this to keep my hair back?”

“You don’t have to, but it would make things a little easier, with that wild-ass hair of yours. And you might as well get used to having your head covered all night. You start feeling those wigs after a while.”

“I thought you said you didn’t do drag, John, so how would you know?” He said over his shoulder as he returned to the bathroom to pull his hair back.

“I told you! It was a Halloween fundraiser.” He said with an embarrassed laugh. “Jesus, it was awful. They put me in this tall-ass beehive wig. I’m pretty sure I lost it off my head somewhere in the middle of the song. But hey, I got laughs, the kids got money.”

Sherlock came out, hair back, the fringe no longer hiding his face, now open and exposed to John. He found himself taking a deep breath, letting his eyes rest on the man in front of him. He got up, “Here, Sherlock, sit here.” Pointing to the chair on the side by the counter. “Now, I can grab a mirror if you want to see what I’m doing while I’m working?”

“John, you have surprised me numerous times today, what’s not one more time?” He sat with a flourish of his dressing gown, before looking down at his hands in his lap, “Do your very worst, Captain.”

“Oh no, Sherlock,” he said as he lifted one under finger under the detective’s chin, and met his reluctant gaze, “I’m about to do my very best.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like updates are going to be coming every 2 weeks. I'm still new to learning my own writing style, and that's what seems to fit my schedule these days.
> 
> Again, thank you all for taking the time to read. Questions, comments, concerns, please, do not hesitate!! I live for comments and kudos. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr:  
> [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins working on Sherlock's look for the night, battling with himself to keep Sherlock from seeing his true feelings.

John swept his thumb lightly over Sherlock’s chin before dropping his hands with a nearly silent breath and set about adjusting the lamps to best illuminate the stunning face before him. 

_OK, idiot, look at him, really look at him. Jesus Christ, do you realize how fucking lucky you are? He trusts you. Remember that. You know you are the only one he would ever allow to do this for him. You get to show him something that you are really good at. AND you get the chance to be close to him. Just breathe John._

“Ok, Sherlock, now something I’m going to warn you about before we get started. Though the end results are going to be very pretty, the process itself isn’t, really. So, please, if you can, keep the grumbling to a minimum. But, if anything is truly uncomfortable, you _have to_ let me know. We don’t need to find out you have an allergy to something but you're too stubborn to tell me your face is burning.” 

Sherlock looked up and shot him an incredulous look. 

“Oi! Don’t give me that! First of all, you are _the_ most stubborn human being I know. You've not told me about much worse, just to be an obstinate git – may I remind you of the Reid case when that crazy florist lady stabbed you in the leg with a pencil, but you didn’t tell me for three days, because you were too high and mighty to admit that you should have listened to me when I told you not to go running after her?? If that infection had gotten any worse…” John had to shake his head at that one; it had taken a rather lengthy run of antibiotics for that one. “And secondly, I’ve seen it happen! Not a great sight to see someone take off their makeup at the end of the night and their skin is as red as Santa’s britches underneath.” 

Sherlock laughed, a sharp bark of sound that took him by surprise, which in turn then made John jump, which made him laugh, which made Sherlock laughed even harder. The two grown men quickly dissolved into giggles like a couple of school children. Once they finally got themselves calmed down and breathing normal, John looked at Sherlock with mock indignation, “Right, enough of that now, let me get to work.” 

_This is it, John, no going back now._

He stood up and turned to the counter, taking his phone out of his pocket. Looking over at Sherlock, he asked, “Do you mind if I play music? I know you’re not much for what I listen to, but it helps me concentrate. I’m sure you can understand that.” He asked with a pointed look at the man who was known to get lost playing his violin for hours at a time. Sherlock waved him off, which John took to be some form of consent to subjecting himself John’s pedestrian music choices. He started up one of the playlists he used for background noise whenever he was working, music with a nice beat, but nothing that required attention. _But Sherlock is probably going to deduce the reason I have every one of these songs downloaded. Git._

_Wait… shit, songs..._

John stopped, again, remembering that he still hadn’t asked Sherlock what he was planning for his routine, but even as he opened his mouth to ask the question, he found himself not really wanting to know. In a way, he liked the idea of finding out for himself later. He was certain Sherlock would want him in the audience tonight, keeping an eye out on the crowd. He wanted to see Sherlock dance, without expectation. _Maybe Sherlock isn’t the only one looking to be surprised by their flatmate._ He decided to shut his trap and not ask. 

John took a can of antiperspirant out of the bag from the shop and sprayed a small amount onto a paper plate he had set out earlier. He could feel Sherlock watching him carefully; in his peripheral, he could see Sherlock’s mouth open slightly as if the question was stuck in his throat. _I wouldn't mind finding something to do with that open mouth. Dammit… John, no._ Then the detective made a small huff and the sound of Sherlock snapping his mouth shut fell on John’s ears. When John turned fully to Sherlock, he saw the questioning look on Sherlock's face that he was expecting. He sat down, bringing the plate and a small make-up sponge with him. 

“So,” he started, as he dipped the sponge into the liquid, “First, yes Sherlock, you can ask questions, I know it drives you crazy, the not knowing. I can practically feel you vibrating with questions. Secondly, yes, this is the same cheap generic unscented antiperspirant that you buy for your underarms.” _Well, maybe not what you’d buy. I’m sure you’ve never used anything generic in your whole posh life._ He took Sherlock's chin in hand again, and began slowly spreading the sponge over his face, starting with those impossible cheeks. “What do you think I used to use to keep Harry's face from melting off?” Sherlock's face brightened to one of understanding. “See, there are a lot of different ways to do this, a lot of opinions of what's the 'right’ way, but this is the way I learned back when I was just a broke uni kid. And most of those ways were the cheapest shortcuts we could find.” Sometimes John felt compelled to justify how things were for those outside the majestic ivory tower that he assumed Sherlock had grown up in. _I know he doesn't judge me for it, the man has no concept of how much money he grew up with, so I don’t know why the hell I do it. “_ And again, please please please… Tell me if it doesn’t feel right. This is one thing that some people **do** have sensitivities to.” 

When he finished wiping Sherlock's face, John nudged up on his chin while dipping the sponge again, so Sherlock would lift his face a bit. John (as discreetly as possible) took a slow and calming breath before he began to run the sponge along Sherlock's neck. The neck that was the star of so many of his late-night fantasies was now under his hand. John could faintly feel the younger man’s pulse beating its course under his fingers. He brought the sponge around, leaning in closer to gently wipe the skin at the back of Sherlock’s neck, fighting the impulse to lean in to taste the porcelain flesh along his jaw. _God, he smells like so good, sandalwood, cedar, tea, Jesus… run my lips on the shell of his ears, mouth at that precious pulse point, feel the beating of his racing heart under my lips... biting, breathing, oh god, the hollow of his thro….FUCK!_ He leaned back, ignoring the flutter in his stomach at touching the long slender flesh. He reached over into the brush case and from the bottom, took pulled out a small black folding fan, taking a moment longer than necessary before facing Sherlock. 

“Close your eyes for a second.” When Sherlock gave him a questioning look, John opened the fan and began gently waving at his face. “Anything to make this all dry faster is a godsend.” Sherlock shut his eyes. 

_Look at me, fanning him like some ancient handmaid._

When he was satisfied Sherlock's face was dry, he patted him on the shoulder, letting him know that he could open his eyes again. John leaned over to grab the one thing that he knew would make Sherlock really question him, a child's craft glue stick. As expected, Sherlock looked perplexed. 

With a tilt of his head, and a piercing stare, he asked, “I don't mean to imply that I don't trust you know what you are doing John, but whatever will you be doing with that?” 

John laughed, because he could see by the look on the younger man face, he was straining between his trust in John and his typical “I’m-smarter-than-everyone” sarcastic attitude, the one he especially liked to throw out when he was confused and not the smartest one about something for once. 

“This is how we will be dealing with your eyebrows. If you leave them alone, they show through the makeup. And I’m sorry, while they are quite lovely eyebrows,” _They really are fucking beautiful, what I wouldn’t give to kiss them to wake you every morning._ “They’re not exactly the look we’re going for. So, our choices then are, a. leave them be and you go out looking trashy, which I will not allow; b. shave them off, and just no. You will not be walking around here with no eyebrows on your face while they grow back, that’s just creepy. Or c. we glue them down. I think c is the best, don't you?” 

Sherlock blinked up at him, “Well, then, that does appear to be the best option, John, if you must.” He said with a dismissive wave. 

John smiled at the adorable prat. He set the glue stick down on the table, then searched through the cabinet behind him, finding an old bottle of vodka tucked in the back. It was covered in a fine layer of dust, as it hadn’t been touched since that first Christmas together in the flat all those years ago. John was a tried and true whisky man. Even in the depths of his despair, he never would’ve deigned to drink out of that bottle. He grabbed a mug, poured a small amount out, then dipped a cotton swab in the liquid. He swiped over each brow with the vodka-soaked swab, explaining, “It helps the glue to hold better to the hairs and to your skin if you dry it out a bit with alcohol. Doesn’t make the skin feel too great, but it helps.” 

He moved the bowl over, then bent over Sherlock slightly, gently touching the brows to make sure the alcohol had dried. He held Sherlock’s face, fighting every urge to take that silly bandana off and run his fingers through the inky curls underneath. With his thumb at the outside of his brow bone, to pull the skin taught, he took the glue stick over each brow, moving against the hair growth first, then sweeping back over and up, so that the hairs laid flat. He set the stick down, turned back to the Sherlock and gently ran his thumbs over the glue, smoothing it down. John memorized the feel of Sherlock’s face under his fingers while he had this chance. _I will never be this blessed again, I will never let this moment fade, I will die with this memory._

He picked up the fan, patted Sherlock on the shoulder again, “Close ‘em.” After a few moments of fanning Sherlock’s face, when John was certain the glue was dry, he put on a second layer, again, smoothing down the glue over his eyebrows. Once that was also dry, he put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder again, feeling the heat off the man's body like a brand etched now onto his palm. “Almost done, two more things before you can open your eyes again.” He took the bowl of vodka again, dipping another swab, then gently ran along the edge of the glue line, smoothing down the edges. John picked up the setting powder and a poof, took a good amount before patting the powder over each brow, setting the glue better. As he finished sweeping away the excess, he patted Sherlock on the shoulder to open his eyes “OK, that should do it.” 

“Now, we're going to be starting with your base - the foundation, and all that.” Sherlock gave him a small nod. John looked down to the table, distracting himself, to calm the thud in his chest with the possibilities laid out before him. John smiled. This is where the fun began. 

John obviously had a natural talent as a make-up artist, but there was another talent he had that helped him to be exceptional at this; it was also why he was an accomplished doctor and why he had been an outstanding soldier. It was sadly a talent he learned at a very young age, growing up with a mean, violent drunk of a father and powerless mouse of a mother. He had learned, all those years ago, to compartmentalize - to acknowledge, yet pay no heed to the things that didn’t matter - his surroundings, his emotions, all of it - to focus on what was needed right here, right now, right in front of him. It’s how he could ignore the sting of a darkening black eye while he soothed a panicking sister from the screaming man downstairs; how he had kept his hands and head steady while trying to stop his friends from bleeding to death in foreign lands with bullets flying inches from his head and bombs exploding all around him. It had given him the ability to do Harry’s makeup in cramped backstage dressing rooms while Queens and bar staff ran around him, like inmates of some glitter-encrusted madhouse. Now, this ability would allow him to do the makeup of the man he loved ( _and lusted after_ ), without breaking a sweat. It was an ability oddly similar to Sherlock retreating to his mind palace, ignoring all else, to focus on one thing, one problem; though John would never be one to agree with the comparison. 

He needed this ability now. He had to focus, and when he turned to Sherlock, his face was one of calm concentration. When Sherlock raised his eyes, he gave John a look that he could not decipher; fond, but curious, eyes widened, eyebrow raised, but at that moment, John let it go.

_It doesn’t matter, it’s not important right now._

He found that with this thought, his earlier nerves dissipated. For once he was not trying keep up with his madman. This, he excelled in, he knew what to do, this was his. He pulled his chair round to face Sherlock and started really looking over the man’s face. He brought his hand up to Sherlock’s again, looking the detective in his eyes, silently asking for permission. Eyes locked on John, Sherlock gave a slight nod, before John brought his fingers up to his chin. He gently turned Sherlock’s face side to side, then up and down, trying to catch his features in the different light, to better map out musculature and bone structure, to see where the shadows lay, where the highlights landed, what needed to be accentuated, what features needed to be softened. John could see small faint scars here and there, a delicate road map hinting at the madman's hidden story. He wondered if he would ever have the honour of hearing all of that story. Sherlock quietly complied, allowing to John guide his face, his eyes never leaving the doctor’s. 

John let his fingers slip from Sherlock before turning to the table. He looked through the supplies Sherlock had purchased to find a colour correcting palette. Taking a sponge, he applied cover with a reddish hue over Sherlock’s glued down eyebrows. When the detective caught a glimpse at what he was using, “Why red?” 

“Because red counters the blue tone of your eyebrows. Helps the foundation cover better." 

“But won’t it show through the makeup?” 

“No. Again, the two colours cancel each other out, something about the way the colours absorb the light. Plus, you picked up some really good, heavy-coverage foundation, so we’ll be fine. What, don’t you trust me, Sherlock?” John nudged his shoulder with a smirk and a wink. As he turned to table to set down the corrector and sponge, John could swear that a faint blush of colour had risen to Sherlock’s pale cheek, the sight of which caused John’s concentration to waver for a moment.

_No, John, you are projecting again. That’s all. It could be anything._

_Breath, ya stupid fucker._

_It’s. Not. You._

_It will never be you._

He pushed the thoughts away as he busied himself, picking out several pale shades of foundation, before reaching to the counter for another plate. He poured out a small amount of each then laid sponges next them. 

He began to apply the foundation, dotting the various shades over different areas of Sherlock’s face, generally darker around the edges of his face, lighter towards the center. He switched shades frequently and would gently move Sherlock’s face from time to time, again seeing how everything looked in different light. He continued going back and forth between shades until, seemingly satisfied, John finally took a clean sponge and began blending the colours together. 

“John?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Why do you dab with the sponge like that? Why not spread it?” 

“It’s called stippling, and I do it this way because spreading it can leave streaks, this leaves a more natural texture. Plus, it’s easier to blend the colours in exactly the direction I want. Blending is a key difference between a good face and shite.” 

Sherlock glanced over at the improvised palette of foundation shades, “Is this ‘contouring’ then, John?” 

“No, not yet. Well, you maybe could consider this the start of the process. It makes contouring a lot easier.” He continued blending as he spoke. “See, what people tend to get wrong about makeup is that too many think their face is just one colour, one texture. But no… there are infinite worlds of colours and textures on every single person's face, so no one shade is going to look exactly right everywhere. Also, no one is going to look the same under different lighting. Different light reflects off the make-up in different ways. Plus, the lights _you'll_ be under? Stage lights; they don't let you lie.” 

Sherlock furrowed his brow for just a moment, then asked “But isn’t drag nothing but a lie? You have men, well mostly men, in women’s clothing, performing to other people’s music? Even in the case of Harry, yes, she was still a woman in women’s clothing, but…. The makeup, the costumes…I’m sure that wasn’t her daily attire, it was part of a persona she created, correct? So, it’s all a lie, isn’t it?” 

John had stopped while Sherlock was talking and looked at him curiously. “In a way, yes. _All_ performances are really some form of a lie, but what I found, most of the time, how a performer dressed, the makeup they wore, their routine, it told a lot more truths than they realized. Honestly, you could tell what was going on in people's lives by the music they picked for their routines. Who was in a good mood, or bad, who was dating someone new, or who just got dumped. Who was crushing on someone, who was in… trouble.” _Yeah… trouble John, trouble. That sounded perfectly fine, didn't sound at all like you were totally about to say, ‘in love’_. “Anyway,” as he continued working, keeping his eyes off the detective's, “when I say that the lights don't let you lie, I mean, there's no getting away from them, they are there, in your face or on your face, I’d guess you’d say. Your makeup has to be on point. As soon as you tell yourself, ‘hey, that's good enough, that'll work.’ it probably won't.” 

“I’m finding it pleasantly surprising that you'd be a perfectionist about this, John. But by the way you spoke of it earlier, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at all.” 

“Thanks, I think” John said with a warm grin for the brunet. He looked over his face, satisfied with the base. “Ta, then. Powder next.” He picked up the setting powder and large poof. “Close your eyes, this shite gets everywhere.” Carefully as possible, to avoid at least a bit of the mess, he pressed the powder to the skin to set. After all the foundation was covered, he used a large fan shaped brush to sweep away the excess. 

“That step is done. Go ahead and open. Now onto the real contouring. Give me a sec to move stuff around here.” He switched makeup around, swapping out the base foundation colours for shades in darker and lighter hues. He took out the necessary brushes and felt a tug in his mind to warn Sherlock about something that had always bugged Harry. 

“Ok, so, apologies in advance if I might zone a bit going forward. I always tended to get super focused here. Used to drive Harry mad. She was stuck once for 5 minutes about to piss herself, cause I was so focused on finishing her eyes” _Taste of his own medicine really, Mr. “I sit in my mind palace and not move for 5 bloody hours at a time”. “_ Do you need anything before we get started; use the loo, a drink?” 

A small shake of Sherlock’s head and John sat up, ready to start. This stage was one of the things that had first drawn him to drag makeup, apart from just being there for Harry and all. To watch the face of a performer transform from their everyday “real” face to the face of their persona was an utterly riveting process. John had seen contouring as really the first major step in that transformation. By simply using light and dark in just the right places to give the illusion of various shapes; softening masculine lines and emphasizing more feminine traits, one could create a new, nearly unrecognizable persona. Lord knows, John had embarrassed himself by not recognizing Queens he knew quite well, out of face. _Hey, you got a date or two for being so ruggedly charming about it… hmmm maybe they just felt sorry for ya, oh well._

Sherlock gave John’s smirk a questioning look, but otherwise left it alone. Like with the foundation shades, John switched shades frequently between the darker and lighter shades, carefully mapping out lines that gave the illusion of shadows, lightness that evoked peaks of the bone structure. John blended as he went; a slightly unorthodox approach, but John preferred to see the result come together as he worked. He could see the slow transformation from the unequivocally (and unbearably alluring) maleness that was Sherlock to something softer, more feminine, yet decidedly not female, like some ethereal creature, not truly of this earthly plane. While the sharp edges on his features slowly blurred, John could see, even in his focused state, something of a softness settle over Sherlock. 

_Probably drifting around in his mind palace, I can imagine he’s going mad just sitting here not doing anything, because he was told to._

John shrugged to himself and kept working. Small strokes here, blending there, John worked diligently until he was satisfied. John’s preferred style had always been one of strong yet subtle femininity, reminiscent of the glamour of 40’s and 50’s Hollywood. With Sherlock’s distinguished features, the style would work well, and should go nicely with the type of costumes he had described. John avoided the heavily accentuated contour lines that seemed to be gaining popularity. John intended to coax out the feminine side of Sherlock’s exquisite beauty, not make a mockery of it. He reached for the blush, adding a small faint circle of pink to each of the detective’s exquisite cheeks. 

_God, I can think of much much better ways to get a flush on those unbelievable cheeks._

After sweeping the rose pink colour across his cheeks, and blending as needed, John settled back to look over his work so far. He liked what he had but felt something was missing. He looked at the choices in front of him, eyes settling on the highlighters. The light shimmery powders were not as common in his time, so he hadn’t the most experience with them. He could see though, in his mind, how the effect would look on Sherlock, and he knew this was the icing on the cake _. Perfect really, I mean it would be sinful not to call attention to the knife’s edge beauty of those cheeks._

He smiled, as the bright powder was smoothed on the crest of each of Sherlock’s cheeks. He leaned back in his chair to see the overall picture he had painted up to this point. _Perfect. Absolutely perfect._ He gave himself a self-congratulatory pat on the back, before putting aside what he had used so far. 

He had missed the hell out of this, but he also knew that he was not the young man he was back in Uni, who could sit and do this for hours on end and not feel a thing (or at least could drink enough once he was done to numb any soreness). Now he was broken ex-soldier with injuries and scars that younger man could never have imagined. He was going to need a moment to stand and move around. 

With a roll of his shoulders and twist of his neck that set off a series of creaks and cracks that really should have embarrassed the doc (but didn’t, cause Sherlock had heard and seen much worse from him), he leaned over and gently placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee, to bring his mind out of wherever it was hiding. Feeling the brunet’s heat through the thin layer of material of his pyjama bottoms, John fought the urge to caress, to move higher, to feel the hitch of breath as he caressed delicate skin. _Alright brain, no more of that, at least not now…_

“Ok, I need to get up and move around for a second before we keep going. I’m thinking another cup of tea; want one?” 

“Yes, John, thank you.” Sherlock mimicked John’s movements from just a moment ago, stretching out his shoulders, rolling his neck. John caught himself staring again at the long column of flesh, twisting this way and that, wanting to feel the heat of it under his fingers once again, wanting to be the one to make him squirm. 

“You know, Sherlock,” he said as he started up the kettle and got their cups ready, “I don't think I've ever seen you sit this still for this long, not counting when you’re on the couch, stuck in the mind palace for hours on end. This – you - just sitting, didn’t think it possible from you. Unless you were sneaking off in your head and I just didn’t notice.” 

“No John, I was here. Just watching you as you work.” He shyly looked up at John, “Now, I may have drifted in there from time to time, but no long stays. Promise.” Sherlock grinned warmly. John wondered what he slipped away to do in his mind. 

“Well, do you want to take a peek at what I have done so far?” The kettle had boiled, and John finished up the tea for them both. He handed Sherlock his and nodded his head towards the loo. 

“Thank you, but no, I think I’d rather to wait to see the finished product.” 

Taking a sip of the too-hot tea, John found, for some reason that he couldn’t exactly put a name to, he was happy about that. He surely trusted Sherlock not to be a right arse about everything John was doing, but he had seen, plenty of times when the acid-tongued detective could not stop himself from brutally issuing harsh criticism, without regard to the egos of those he crushed. 

_Hell, I know, it’s easy to be critical of the process at this point. All this work, and to the untrained eye, doesn’t look not much has been done so far. It’s all just background really. I mean, I can take his bullshit most days, but I think it would break my heart if he started tearing this apart._

John set his tea on the table and looked down at Sherlock. The younger man seemed calm, but John could sense something just below the quiet surface; like an almost nervous energy or tension held just slightly too taut. _Is he nervous because he thinks I’m gonna fuck this up? Don’t tell me his trust in me is that shaky?_

“Are you sure? We know how much you hate knowing things.” 

“No, John, really, I’m fine. I trust you, in all things.” His head tilted up to meet John. Bright met dark as their eyes locked. “All things, John.” He said quietly once more before looking down. 

“Right.” _What? The? Fuck?_ John swallowed against a suddenly dry throat, so he took another sip of tea. “Ok.” _ALL THINGS?? No, he couldn’t possibly mean…. No, just no. Stop._ John took sip after careful sip to calm his mind. 

“I’m ready whenever you are, John.” 

_I’ve been ready for years, you beautiful git._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok... whew... this (and the next chapter) were a doozy to write. I realized it is a lot more difficult to write about a process you're familiar than you'd think it is. There are a ton of little steps you almost forget to write about, but you also don't want to drag (HARHAR) it out like a boring-ass instructional. And in agreeing with John, there are a million ways to do drag, this is how I know. Anything majorly different than what you may know or may be familiar with, again, this is just how I do it.
> 
> Like always, Un-Beta'd/not Brit-picked, please let me know any mistakes y'all catch.
> 
> Don't hesitate to let me know what you think; comments, critiques, questions, I love them all!!
> 
> You can find me elsewhere @
> 
> Tumblr: [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)  
> Twitter: [Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock?s=09)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John continues working on Sherlock's makeup. Sherlock is well... Sherlock.

John smiled to himself, set his cup on the counter, looked at the makeup on the table and set his mind to focus on the next task.

Eyes. Those amazing, impossible eyes.

_How in the fuck am I going to do them any fucking justice?_

_Shoosh, idiot. You got this._

He sat down in front of Sherlock and looked him dead in the eyes, the face of concentration back in place. He was still well aware of the ache in his soul to be allowed other reasons to stare into the kaleidoscope eyes before him; he pushed that feeling to the side, allowed a sort of professional distance to settle over him.

As he looked into Sherlock’s eyes, John was reminded of a time, back in Uni, when a group of his friends had somehow managed to arrange a trip for all of them to the Virgin Islands on a shoestring budget and a handful of redeemed favors. John could never forget the moment he saw the Caribbean Sea for the first time as the plane broke through a cloud bank. Before that moment, he had only ever seen the ocean from pictures; he had no idea that the sea could truly be that beautiful of a shade of blue. John closed his eyes for a moment as his mind was flooded with the memory of the warmth and awe he felt in that week he and his friends had spent swimming, eating and drinking on the exotic and foreign islands. That unbelievable colour he saw when he glanced the ocean for the first time, and rush of feelings that came from it, is what was what he now saw as he looked in Sherlock’s eyes.

That feeling is what he wanted, no - needed - to come out in his design. This was the reason he had never planned his design in advance. There had to be that moment when it all hits and the face tells you what to do. Like the cliché of the sculptor who does not carve the wood, but simply removes the excess wood to show the sculpture underneath, every face had a story to tell and it was up to John to give it a voice.

He took the necessary tools out; primer, liner, the brushes he anticipated needing. He knew his design would be subtle; Sherlock’s eyes too beautiful by themselves to be masked with bright gaudy colors, or flashy designs. No, this required finesse.

John looked over the different palettes, before he choosing one containing a beautiful rich shimmery copper. It reminded John of his last night on the islands all those years ago. The sunset that night had been one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, colours he had no name for dancing across the dusk sky, reminding him of the beauty that was possible in the world. Yes, this was it, this would be the base, the colour that stood out most. Thankfully, the pricey makeup palette had the advantage of having nearly every shade he would have to picked to go along it.

“Close your eyes please”

Sherlock replied with only a short nod. He took a deeper than normal breath, threw one more uninterpretable look at John, before shutting his eyes slowly. John could see his eyes, even shut, were scrunched with more tension than John could let slide.

“Hey,” he said as he gently laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He opened his eyes again, confused and looked up at John, “You can relax, Sherlock. We can't have your face all mushed like that. You'll ruin my masterpiece.” He chuckled, but Sherlock still shifted his attention down at his hands again.

_Shit. Masterpiece… Really? That one should've stayed in here, John._

“My apologies, John.” There was more sincerity in those simple words then John was expecting. Sherlock must have seen the slight shift in John’s face from the statement.  “It’s not you, it’s just… I’m not used to…. Someone… being this close to my face for prolonged periods of time.”

“Do you need a sec?”

“No... No, John, I am fine. Really, you may continue.”

“Right. Ok, this is how we’ll do it then. I’m going to need you to have your eyes closed for most of this and I will be touching near them, holding the skin taut and what have you - one of those things that you’re not supposed to do, but I do anyway. Oh well, old dogs, ya know? And there’s also the whole, ya know, “actually touching your eyelid with the brushes” thing. Now, since I don’t want you flinching and end up with me stabbing you in the eyeball, you’re going to feel me touch the side of your head first. That gives you time to anticipate and prepare yourself. Would that make it easier?”

“Yes, I think that would help considerably, John.” His eyes said the thank you his pride would not seem to allow to spoken aloud.

Sherlock closed his eyes and John gave him a bit of time to refocus before raising his fingers to the side of the detective’s face. He rested them there briefly, allowing himself the slightest moment to appreciate the warm flesh under his fingers before bringing his other hand up to begin. Each movement, each change in tools, brushes, etc., John made sure to let Sherlock know, with a soft touch, indicating where he would be, where he would touch next.

Sherlock was much more relaxed now, quickly learning John’s methods. He easily moved and steadied his face as he needed in able for John to continue to work. As John created, focused on his goal, the two, as always, were intuitive in their ability to work together, learning a sort of language of subtle touch. The slightest push or pull to indicate John needed him to turn slightly, or put his head up, all done without words, and Sherlock complied readily. It was telling how focused John was that his mind was remarkably quiet while he worked, no unbidden lustful thoughts interrupting his work.

As seen when John worked had applied the foundation and contouring, he preferred to switch colours and brushes frequently, working both eyes in tandem, rather than one at a time. He first drew on Sherlock’s new brows over the glued down remains of his own. He gave Sherlock dramatically arched, but not overdone brows. He then lined the chameleon eyes in stark black, drawing out perfectly matched wings (a skill he was quite proud of), bringing the liner out long for an added bit of flair.

John brushed the shadow on, starting with a bright off-white base over the entire lid up to Sherlock’s brows. The copper shadow was swept unto the lower lid, heavy to pack in the color, then John cut the crease with a dark shimmered grey, blending everything to perfection. He found a white shimmer that he used directly under the brows to brighten the eye.  John found the mascara and long stark black lashes to finish off the look.

As John was putting the eye makeup back, he saw a small palette of glitters. Now, he normally was not a fan, finding it too much of a hassle, but he saw the potential here, as long as he stuck with a ‘less is more’ attitude. He found a glitter primer on the table, and using a thin precision brush, applied a small line above the wings. He then dabbed a rich reddish copper coloured glitter over the line, to match the copper shadow on Sherlock’s eyes. John tried to make as little of a mess as he could, which of course was impossible; glitter got everywhere. He used the fan brush from earlier and swept away excess that had found its way to Sherlock’s face.

He then stopped and looked at Sherlock. He touched the man’s shoulder, so he’d open his eyes. John couldn’t help himself. Professional distance be damned for just a moment. He smiled because he was damn proud of what he had done. Sherlock’s eyes flashed just enough to draw you in. Of course, as always, that impossible shade of blue (with the tiny fleck of brown) was the main attraction, but John was happy with the dramatic flair around them he had given. He tipped his knuckle under Sherlock’s chin to lift his face so he could admire his work, then let his hand drop and turned towards the table with a devilish grin on his face.

“Last step, mate. We’re almost done.”

John looked up and let his eyes settle to Sherlock’s perfect Cupid’s bow lips. He let himself see the soft skin, the cool pink colour. Flashes of a thousand long-buried fantasies ( _the first kiss - hard, soft, passionate -raw from hours of being plundered by John’s greedy lust..., those miraculous lips all over his body, wrapped around his cock, sucking, licking….)_  tried for a moment to rise to the surface. John could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, bright and intense and when John saw the detective’s lips parted ever so slightly, he felt emboldened, by god know what, and he slowly raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. He may never be able to name what he saw in the detective’s eyes in that moment, because if John thought Sherlock capable, he’d say that he saw an impossible mix of pride, fear, want and love all in competition. John took a careful breathe, not wanting this perfect moment to end, but in a flash, it was gone. Sherlock let out a minute shudder before drawing his attention to the table.

John’s eyes slowly followed. “Right.”  

He found a deep red liner, and two shades of true cherry red, one ever so slightly lighter than the other. Again, his hand went to Sherlock’s chin, putting his face in the best position, and he made a face, eyes on Sherlock, silently asking him to imitate. Of course, Sherlock understood and immediately cooperated, copying the shape of John’s lips.

John steeled his nerves and his hand with a deep breath before using the liner to draw out the perfect lips of the man he loved. He had never before drawn lips that were the true shape of the performer’s, usually overdrawing for dramatic effect, and silently laughed to himself that the first time he did, of course it would be Sherlock.   _Because there is no fucking reason to change a thing about perfection._

Once lined, he filled in the lipstick, using the darker red towards the outside and lighter to the inside. He motioned for Sherlock to rub his lips together to blend to colours. _I could help with that…. Might go a bit outside the lines though….._ He looked them over once more, set the lipstick down, and knew he was he was done. He smiled softly as he reached for setting spray. _Better be happy he got this, otherwise I’d have just used hairspray._  

The man before him was absolutely radiant. The effects of Sherlock natural allure, and the glamour created by John's talented hands had combined to something new and amazing, balancing a razor-thin line between masculine and feminine, strength and fragility, earthly and ethereal. John felt his breath quicken, despite himself. He was close enough, he knew, if Sherlock’s attention shifted ever so slightly, the madman would see his pulse racing, a simple man, unable to control even the simplest of his body's reaction.

_How base are you? Here you sit in front of a work of art, and you want to fuck it?_

He sat back, ran his hands over his face, to clear his mind. “Well, there you are. We’re done. Do you want me to grab a mirror, or do you want to just look in the bathroom mirror?”

“I… I’ll go to the bathroom.”

Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood, taking a brief moment to stretch his long-still body. John watched as a long lean detective twisted and reached heavenly, directly in front of him. He gave a shake of his head and a quirk to his grin, but as a slim peek of pale skin flashed from under the bottom hem of his worn t-shirt, the grin quickly evaporated.  John was left with pinched lips, clenched jaws and arms crossed tightly over his chest, gripping at his own biceps roughly to prevent his _transport_ from reaching across the divide between them to wrap his fingers around the lean hips and pull the detective to him. Sherlock lowered his arm, let out a huff, and slipped past John to the loo, unaware of his friend’s lustful thoughts.

John gave Sherlock a moment to himself, grabbing his phone from the counter to turn the music off. He couldn’t decide whether he was stalling to allow Sherlock a moment of privacy to see John’s work, or if it was to garner enough courage to see Sherlock’s reaction; the nasty voice in his head assuring him in tight whispers, that Sherlock was going to hate what he saw in the mirror.

Hands unclenched, John rubbed his thighs before taking a fortifying breath. He focused, pulled himself up and walked down the hallway to the bathroom door. He peeked in, and first saw the reflection of Sherlock’s curls in the mirror. Confused, John looked further into the room. There, Sherlock stood with his head towards the mirror, hands clenched around the sink, but his head was down and eyes firmly shut. John let his gaze linger on Sherlock for a moment. He knew that the genius was well-aware of his presence, but to be polite, he still let out a small cough to alert him. Before the detective could stiffen too much, John leaned into the room, coming closer to him.

“Have you looked yet?”

“No, I strangely found myself wanting your presence here when I first saw your work. Like the great artist revealing a sculpture for his patron.”

“Again, don’t know about the comparison, mate, but I’m here.” His next action, he could not help; ask him later why he did what he did, and he would not be able to answer you, but he came behind Sherlock and put his hand to the wide valley between his shoulder blades, rubbing a small circle with his thumb. He leaned in, angled his face towards Sherlock’s ear and in a voice huskier than he anticipated, whispered,

“Look.”

Sherlock turned sharply at the sound of John’s voice, before taking a long swallow and turning back to the mirror. He slowly opened his eyes, but they did not seek out his own face, but opened straight to meet John’s. Those keen blue-green eyes slowly slid to his own face, and those cherry red lips parted for a sharp gasp. John stepped back as Sherlock leaned into the mirror, looking over John’s work.

“John, this is amazing.” In quiet awe, he sounded like John did, all those years ago, during that unforgettable cab ride. “You were able to able to feminize my features, yet… this is still me. This is… I’m….”

He stopped and turned to John. One step, and he was in John’s space; he raised his arms to settle on the army doctor’s biceps. “John, thank you, this is more than I imagined.”

Trying desperately to keep the mood light, lest he allow a thin ray of hope to spring from any misinterpretation of what was said or done, “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, jerk.”

“No John,” his hands fell, but his face stayed focused on John as he leaned back onto the sink. “I had no doubt in your talent, John. You are not a falsely prideful person. If you claim talent in an area, it is wise to listen. But this, John,” he said as he turned again to the mirror, “this far exceeds what I thought capable, considering.” the last said with downcast eyes.

Not quite sure how to take Sherlock’s words, John leaned back in the doorframe and watched as Sherlock looked back up and again investigated his own face, as if he had never seen it before. Pale eyes roamed his features, fingers close, but not touching, the work that John had been done. He watched as Sherlock discovered how the light caught the pigments in different ways, how the colours blended to create the design.

_God, he is amazing._

Sherlock’s eyes caught John’s in the mirror again. Without turning, and with a softness never heard in the detective’s voice, he quietly said, “Thank you, again, John.” He stared for a moment longer, then blinked once... twice, before looking into his own face once more. He sighed quietly and as he breathed out the small sound, he straightened himself, turned and made his way out of the bathroom.

John followed behind Sherlock slowly, disturbed. He sensed, by Sherlock’s sudden shift, that the atmosphere had suddenly and drastically changed. John watched as he paced around the kitchen, then sitting room, looking for something. Sherlock’s demeanour picked up an urgency that had not been there just a moment ago.

Seeing his phone on his chair, Sherlock grabbed it, and began playing at the screen without looking at John. Sherlock’s voice, suddenly back to his normal reserved poshness, “Well, I will be in my room then, getting ready for this evening. Thank you for your assistance, John.” He brushed past John standing in the doorway to retreat down the hallway.

“Ok… Well, Sherlock, where are we going tonight?”

The brunet stuttered slightly on his way to his bedroom, but in his infuriatingly neutral tone, asked, “What?”

“Where are we going for the case? What club? You never said. I need to know how to dress.”

“Dress?” Sherlock slowly turned towards John.

“Yeah, is it a nice poncy club, casual, what?”

“I didn’t say? Well, it’s of no concern. I won’t need you to come with me, John. You’ve done plenty to help with the case already. I appreciate your assistance.” Sherlock turned back to his door, but stopped as John spoke

“What do you mean you won’t need me? You don’t want me to come with you? Why not? What the hell are you playing at?”

_No, no, no, we are not doing this shite, you are not going by yourself!_

Without turning or looking up, Sherlock spoke, voiced suddenly raised, slicing into John with sharp words.

“John, I have attempted politeness, as you constantly nag at me to do, but this really should be obvious, even for you.” He turned and glared. “If I am to be there undercover, but then you arrive, alone, my cover would be blown and the case would be ruined. You seem to forget John, the dregs of London do look at you as something of a minor celebrity. After how many years now of telling anyone who even remotely hinted that you were anything but a perfect little heterosexual, ‘I’m not gay,’ if you were to suddenly grace the gay bars of London, well, that would certainly be news for the tabloids, wouldn’t it? And it’s not as if you could go in unnoticed, because let’s admit to ourselves, your skills at the art of makeup notwithstanding, your otherwise dreadful talents at the nuances of disguise leave something to be desired. Any criminal element with a half, no... quarter, of a functioning brain would quickly put two and two together and realize that the ‘surprise out-of-town guest’ whom no one has ever heard of looks vaguely familiar, and oh, isn’t that… why yes… it’s Sherlock Holmes!” With a spin, the man was back to down looking at his phone, entered his bedroom, shutting the door with poignant thud.

As Sherlock spat out his words, derision dripping off of every syllable, John could only feel himself shrink back into the sitting room to slump down into his chair, his inadequacies glaring in comparison to his friend. He didn’t know what hurt him more at that moment; how quickly the mercurial man in the other room had turned on him, proving to John that anything, any spark or emotion that John thought he had seen was all in his mind, or that he knew every word was truth. He was useful for a thing or two, but he was nothing compared to Sherlock. He was ordinary; Sherlock was anything but.

As the two thoughts battled in his mind, his grip slowly tightened on the arms of his chair. A new sweep of emotion slowly came over him. The creeping tendrils of anger, that old friend of John’s, forced their way into his mind, turning thoughts to deepening shades of red in his imagination.

_How fucking dare he? After all of his bullshit that I put up with, and he can’t even be a little fucking nicer with his bullshit? No, I get it the same as everyone else._

_I’m just the same as everyone else._

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays lovelies!!
> 
> A little present here from me to you, hope you enjoy. As always, don't hesitate with comments, corrections, etc!
> 
> You can find me elsewhere on the big ol' interwebs:  
> Tumblr  
> [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)  
> Twitter  
> [Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has made it abundantly clear that he does not need or desire any further help from John. 
> 
> John has to decide what to do next.

John could hear Sherlock getting ready in his bedroom; he listened to the sounds of the wardrobe opening and closing, drawers being picked through, the door between his bedroom and the bathroom being used. Sherlock rarely used that door, generally preferring the hallway entrance for some reason. If John’s mind hadn’t been occupied with a rather painful mix of heartbreak and rage, he may have questioned the change in his behaviour. As it were, only bitter, petty thoughts troubled John’s mind at that moment.

_Hmm… Can’t have me seeing him before he’s ready. Must make his grand fucking entrance, I’m sure. Prove once again how much better he is . And oh no, wouldn’t want me to get too close, my ineptitude at  ‘nuanced disguise’ might rub off and ruin everything; I might just infect Sherlock with my bloody incompetence. Someone might recognize you and oh no, it would be all my fault. Boo hoo._

He could see, in his mind, the madman whirling about his room gathering his things, putting on the finishing touches to what John was sure would be some amazing disguise, some impeccable ensemble. The longer he sat there, the worse these thoughts and images got jumbled in his head.

_Fuck it._

John relinquished his grip on the chair, got up and stomped his way into the kitchen. He proceeded to pour himself a rather hearty glass of whisky, shutting the cabinet door a bit more aggressively than he intended, rattling a protest from the cupboard’s contents.

_Fuck that too._

John turned and leaned back against the counter, raising the glass to his lips. As he slowly swallowed the comforting amber liquid, he heard Sherlock’s door.   
The tiny sound of the latch opening caused a hitch in his breath he couldn’t stop. He took another sip, demanding his treacherous pulse to slow itself. To an outsider, it would have looked as if he were quietly relishing the warmth of the whisky as it trickled down his throat, but he was really wagering with himself on whether or not he would look up when the madman strolled into the kitchen.

What came into that room (because of course John couldn’t not look)  was not what he could have possibly expected, nor could have prepared himself to see. Since his eyes were looking down when he walked in, Sherlock’s boots were what he saw first. John saw simple, old-school, black high-shine Doc Martins, the kind that had always made John’s blood race a little faster; laces mismatched, left side black, right done up with purple.   _Wait… no… is that.. lavender….?? Is he actually going by the hanky code?_ For some reason, John wasn’t surprised, and a traitorous smirk appeared at the corner of his lip.

His eyes continued their journey up, hungrily taking in soft black leather trousers, so tightly wrapped around Sherlock’s impossibly long legs, they looked painted on. Sherlock turned just as John’s eyes came up, and John was left with an eyeful of Sherlock’s arse in perfect silhouette. John hated himself, because despite how blindingly furious he was at Sherlock, he could not help the soft moan that escaped his lips. Thankfully, it was low enough that Sherlock didn’t seem to hear him. The desire to dig his short sturdy fingers into that perfect arse, pull him close, wrap those long leather-clad legs around him, to let Sherlock feel exactly what he was doing to him dressed like this was nearly overwhelming. Instead, he clenched and unclenched his hand slowly on the edge of the counter, and bit off a second pitiful sound with another deep sip of his whisky.

He allowed himself to look up at Sherlock again, as the younger man turned. He wore a tight black tank top, bearing a worn-out image of David Bowie, a la the movie Labyrinth; that then covered by an open, zip-up hoodie. Sherlock’s hair was slicked back, in a subtle pompadour style John had never seen on him, even with all the disguises Sherlock had worn over the years. John was fanatically in love with Sherlock’s curls, but seeing him with his face wide open, without the tell-tale waves dipping down was almost a whole other turn on. Those curls were such an intrinsic part of what made Sherlock Sherlock, seeing him like this was like seeing the man for the first time.

John imagined that the shirt was not some random one picked up for the sake of a disguise. His mind flashed to the thought of a much younger Sherlock, still in secondary - the reclusive kid; long, lanky, still finding himself, the one the other kids would never understand. He would have been that quiet lad that tried to melt into the background because he was of an amazing mind, but confused, not yet trained to handle the onslaught of information that the world threw at him.  John can see how a kid like that would gravitate to someone like Bowie. It hurt to think of that sad lonely boy, surrounded by fools that did not know the treasure they had amongst them. But for one tiny reason, it also made John smile (at least, to himself), Labyrinth had always been one of his favorite movies, and yeah, he may have a thing for Bowie too.

_First celebrity crush… I mean, that bulge… it taught me things. God, wouldn't that be funny, the two of us swanning over the same bloke? No no no, John, do not start this… you’re pissed, remember._

The mad, leather-clad genius continued moving about the flat, doing his staunch best to avoid John’s eyes. John just glared as Sherlock gathered his things in a black leather duffel bag he had brought out with him from his bedroom. As John looked down at the whisky in his hand, he noticed all the makeup still in the kitchen table.

_God fucking dammit._

“Sherlock.” he said stiffly.

There was a slight pause from the whirlwind in the sitting room, as Sherlock turned to John, still avoiding his eyes, but the detective stayed quiet.

“Yeah, don't forget to take supplies for touch-ups.”

The slight squint to Sherlock’s eyes as he glanced up was the only question that he would likely ask, but John understood. He threw back the last of the whisky, set the glass down, and pushed himself off the counter. John made his way into the bathroom, and started rummaging through the closet. With a quiet cheer to himself, he found the old shaving kit he was looking for hiding out in the back. While cleaning out the bag of its expired contents, thoughts continued to beat at John's skull.

_The man doesn’t even know to take shit for touch-up; I lived this for over four fucking years! Why the fuck wouldn’t I be going? I mean, Jesus Christ, I know this environment! It’s been a few years, but I seriously doubt that the community has changed that much._

_Maybe that’s it… Doesn’t want me there cause someone might recognize me from back then? Maybe that’ll be a distraction, might piss the git off if I to get attention for once._

These battling thoughts continued as he walked back into the kitchen and picked up some of the main items he had used on Sherlock, stuffing them into the now emptied bag. He looked up to see Sherlock carefully watching him. After a moment of deliberation, he grabbed a few of his precious brushes and put them in the bag as well. Still sensing Sherlock’s careful gaze, he looked up, and without breaking his eyes away, walked over to the other man, leaned over to open the duffel at Sherlock’s side, and slipped in the bag of supplies.

Breaking away from the heat he could feel radiating from Sherlock was a near impossible task, but John managed. Right now, so many conflicting emotions raged inside him, he knew he had to back away, had to put distance between them. He took a slow deep breath and shut away everything behind a wall of fake indifference.

Sherlock was the first to look away, which John took as a small victory, and he glanced down into the bag. While John made his way back to his chair, he heard Sherlock utter a single word, a simple question for the doctor, “John?”

John sat and picked up a magazine that had been sitting on the floor next to the chair, bent open to an article he had been reading before he left, and as casually as possible, said, “I know I don’t have to say this, but I feel obligated to anyway - be careful with the brushes.”  After a pause, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Right.”  John heard the uncharacteristic sounds of Sherlock shuffling a bit on the other side of the room, before setting the bag on the coffee table. He stepped down to his room again, and as he came back into the sitting room, just inside John’s peripheral vision,he pulled a well-worn black leather biker jacket on. John chanced a look as Sherlock grabbed his phone from next to the duffel and fidgeted with it for a moment. John could see this was a well-loved, cared for, lived-in coat. It may have not seen the outside of the closet for a number of years, but John could see that the hide told a story he very much wished he could learn.

Sherlock finally looked up from his phone, and caught John looking at him. He was about to speak, but instead just took the bag and slung it over his shoulder. He turned to make his way out the flat but stopped with his hand on the doorframe. He turned ever so slightly to speak quietly over his shoulder to the back of John’s head, “Thank you again, John. You need not worry about this evening, I will be fine. You’ve had a long day, I’m sure you are quite tired, there is no need to wait up for me.”

He was out the door and down the first set of stairs before John could respond, had he been inclined to do so. He could hear as Sherlock paused at the landing (John's hearing was much better and much more observant than Sherlock ever gave him credit for). He heard the slight squeak of the step above the landing, as one foot started back up, but there was a pause, then a change of direction. Sherlock was down the stairs and out the door without further ado.

John listened as he left, heard a cab stopping for him, then take off. John gave himself a full five minutes before making his next move. He had been fighting with himself all night, after Sherlock’s scathing comments; debating what to do next.  Now he clearly knew what he was going to do.

He remembered Sherlock letting the name Mika slip earlier. That’s all he had to go on, but he thought he could likely use it to figure out where Sherlock was going tonight.

_And I’m going to follow his stupid arse._

He took out his phone and did a quick searched “Mika - gay bar - drag”. And thankfully, as Mika is not exactly a common name, that’s all the info he needed. He found a link to a bar, near Vauxhall, called Masquerade, owned by Mika Mendolson. Once John saw his picture, he remembered the man; he had been an up and coming Queen right around the time John was walking away from the community.

_Now look at him, Club owner! Good on him._

John looked over the club’s website, and based on what Sherlock had told him about the performance structure, he knew this was the right place; a full time cast, with rotating guests on the weekends. He took a moment to browse the site, trying to get a sense of the club, and what he saw was exactly what he would have expected from the kid he remembered.

John may not have known him for long, but the kid had made an impression. As Lorelei LeBamBam, Mika’s drag persona, she had always performed in traditional glamour make-up and costumes, of which John was an obvious fan, but she always pushed the envelope when it came to what she performed; always choosing songs just this side of controversial, using performances to send a message.  

Masquerade reflected that attitude, it seemed. It looked like a jazz parlor straight out of the 30s, done up in rich leathers and velvets; a collection of mismatched furniture and art, but everything balanced together perfectly. In contrast to the old-fashioned decadent decor, the venue advertised diverse array of performers, from traditional Queens, to Kings, bio-Queens, gender non-conforming performers; also advertising spoken word nights, educationals and meeting spaces.

John set his phone on the arm of his chair and made his way to the bathroom. It was going to take more than his normal efficient, twenty-minute shower and shave to get himself ready for tonight. To blend in, he needed to put a bit more effort tonight.

_Wanker might think I only ever wear jumpers and comfy trousers, but I can preen just as well as him, thank you very much._

He stripped down and hopped in the shower, letting the nearly scalding water run over him for a nice long moment. It had been an exhausting day, physically and emotionally. John knew (and secretly looked forward to, and dreaded, the fact) that it wasn’t getting any easier.

_If Sherlock gets his head out of fucking arse and realizes I am a fucking asset here, who knows what the hell could happen tonight._

John felt the hot water slowly loosen up the muscles of his back, where John always carried his stress. He soaped himself up, allowing his mind to wander this way and that as he cleansed the stress away. He found himself thinking of Sherlock, which came as no surprise, since the man occupied so much of his thoughts anyway.

He was still seething over Sherlock’s words, but, in the privacy of the shower, with no threat of the madman bursting in without warning, he gave in to some of the other thoughts of Sherlock that whirled in his head, the ones underneath the anger, the pride, even the love he felt for the infuriating man. He let his mind go back to those brief moments he had had while working with Sherlock. The touches, the closeness, everything that he pushed back in the moment, he finally let come flooding back to him.

When he allowed that flood to wash through him, a strangled sound fell from his lips. _How easy it would have been… just to pull him in, he was so close, he was so beautiful._ John leaned against the cold tile of the shower, and let soapy knuckles drag across his chest before catching his nipple between his fingers, pinching tightly, imagining Sherlock’s mouth on him.

He knew it was a Bit Not Good, but he grabbed Sherlock’s poncy conditioner from the shelf, and poured some into his palm. John smirked a grin to the himself as the smell alone brought images of Sherlock’s beautiful curls to his mind. He felt that ever=present desire to run his hands through them burn through him. His cock was already half-hard with the images of Sherlock’s hair through his fingers when he wrapped his hand around himself. He tugged his length slowly, allowing the images of Sherlock to crowd his mind.

Sherlock’s long, talented fingers, not his own short, compact digits, were wrapped around his cock, squeezing, pulling foreskin over glans, then down to the base, clenched so tightly, but so tenderly, so strong; pulling from him pleasure most obscene, most beautiful, most divine. It was Sherlock’s thumb coming back up, toying with him, circling over his slit slowly. It was Sherlock’s fist that tightened around him and John fucked into the tightness with abandon. He needed it faster, harder; he needed to get this ridiculous pressure out. It was Sherlock’s hand running up his chest, into his hair, gripping tightly. It was Sherlock’s impossible mouth he panted his desire into, Sherlock’s eyes he drowned in as he lost himself, pumping his prick into the tight clench of fingers, moaning Sherlock’s name as the wave of his orgasm grew before bursting over him, hard enough to buckle his knees.

Leaning there against the cold tile, coaxing the last of his pleasure from his softening cock, he felt melancholy wash over him. He was infinitely grateful to have Sherlock, in any way possible but John was a decidedly sexual man, and for him the ultimate expression of emotion, of love, was to share that physically with the other person. The love he felt for Sherlock was so powerful, such a constant, that to know he would never share this level of intimacy with him was nearly unbearable.

John had long ago accepted that Sherlock would never have those feelings for him; he had always assumed Sherlock was likely asexual/aromantic, having never taken an interest in anyone. John could not imagine Sherlock ever having the desire to share himself in such an intimate way with anyone. In all the years that the two men knew each other, sex was never a topic of conversation, outside of what was needed for casework.

John had thought that allowing himself to be close to Sherlock, it would be enough, some mediocre substitute to keep him going, like a shot of methadone to an addict. He quickly realized that having been so close, so strangely intimate with the man was so much more; it was a point of time that would blaze in his memory for eternity. If he had the strength to bear it, it would sustain him through life, but he had to be so careful now. Today only raised the temptation to destroy everything he had built with Sherlock for something he was certain that the younger man did not want.

John shut off the water, dried off, then stepped out and stood in front of the mirror to shave. He felt his chest tighten at the memory of Sherlock looking over his makeup with short-lived reverence in this very same mirror, not even an hour ago. It could have been an eternity ago, with the harsh shift from how he felt at that moment, blazing with pride and awe at the beauty of the man, to now; tired, angry, but fiercely determined.

He shaved, taking his time to ensure a clean-shaved look with no nicks or missed spots; even throwing on his best smelling aftershave he rarely remembered he even had. He stole a glance at Sherlock’s shelf of toiletries and decided to use some of Sherlock’s infamous “product” to style his hair, rather than just running a comb through it and just letting it dry as is, like normal. John’s hair was longer than usual, long overdue for a haircut, so he swept it up and away from his face. It was quite different that his normal style, but he liked it. It matured him, but it fit, even being so different than how he’d ever worn it.

Satisfied that the broken ex-soldier staring back at him from the mirror was as respectable looking as he could get, John went upstairs to change. He may not have had the Saville Row labels hanging in his closet like Sherlock, but he wasn’t completely without a fashion sense. He just preferred his simple button-ups and jumpers; they were comfortable. Also, people tended to underestimate what John was capable of while he was wearing them. He had found to be incredible advantageous when following behind Sherlock, who had a nasty habit of pissing off all the wrong sorts. The nastier elements of the London criminal element didn’t expect the short little man in the comfy jumper to be a trained soldier with an illicit firearm tucked into his trousers. But John also didn’t spend four years in gay bars, surrounded by some of the most fashion-obsessed Queens not to know how to dress well when he wanted to.

Now, John did have to dive into the mostly unused right side of his closet that held the rarely seen clothes – the few suits he had, items with sentimental value that he couldn’t get rid of, his old uniform. He searched for and found a tight pair of dark blue jeans that he had always managed to gain compliments, mostly about his arse, when wearing. He was nervous trying them on, as he likely hadn’t worn them since Uni, but was pleasantly surprised that they fit him perfectly. Between muscle gain and lose from the army and then invalidation, PTSD and a depression-induced eating disorder that resulted in a great deal of weight loss before Sherlock came along, and now his crazy life of chases and adrenalin and carry-out and baked goods from their “not-housekeeper” and free meals from thankful Italian ex-con chefs, muscle and fat had put themselves in just the right places. He was amazed to see they looked better on him now than they had in the “good ol’ days” of his youth.

_I’m not staring at my own arse, I swear._

_Hey, it’s not a bad looking arse..._

He picked out a long-sleeved black button-up, foregoing a vest underneath, and leaving a button or two more undone than he normally would. He rolled the sleeves up to just under his elbows. He donned his best pair of “date shoes,” as Sherlock liked to call them, a pair of black brogues that he kept well shined.  

The finishing touches were a pair of horn-rimmed glasses he used to wear because he thought they made him look cool, and a watch he had bought himself years ago. He had bought it a treat to himself, once the fees from working with Sherlock had finally paid off his debts and he had built up a decent padding in his bank account. Unfortunately, he had bought it only two days before Sherlock’s jump, and he found he couldn't bear to wear the damn thing while he thought Sherlock dead and he hadn't found a good enough reason, since Sherlock’s resurrection, to wear it til now.

He looked at himself in the mirror and was honestly surprised. He looked a little less like the broken old man he was used to seeing, and a little more like the cocky shite he remembered staring back at him ten years ago. Not that he could looked any younger; there was no mistaking the scars and wrinkles on his face, or the bags under his eyes, caused from a lifetime of war, pain, beauty, love, and grief stomping across his features. No, he looked more like… Well, himself. There was a light, a confidence, almost innocence, in those well-worn eyes that he remembers from all those years ago.

It's that look that lights that ember in his heart. He stands tall, into battle he thinks, grabbing a black leather jacket from the closet, before heading back downstairs. He checked his watch on the way into the sitting room. He'd timed it perfectly to get to the club with time for a drink and to look around before the show started. He wasn’t sure how he would confront Sherlock though, when it came time.

_I guess I’ll blow that bridge up when I get to it._

He threw his coat on and grabbed the last of his things - keys, phone etc, before heading to the door. He turned to close the door behind him and looked around the room. A sudden feeling washed over him that he couldn't describe. It's felt almost like… He didn't know, but he knew it felt important, like he's missed something big.

Or maybe it's that somewhere deep down, he knew, something important, momentous, lay in his future. As if he knew that the next time the two of them stood in this room together, everything would be different. Maybe, after tonight, things would never be the same between the two men ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are not familiar, the hanky code that John refers to, is a system originating in gay culture in the 70's, used to discreetly let others know what you were into, what you were looking for, etc. It uses coloured handkerchiefs worn in your back pocket, worn on left for tops and right for bottoms. Over the years, the colours have expanded greatly and so have their uses. Sherlock using lavender laces, on the right side is his way of quietly announcing he's a drag Queen; worn on the left would've said he was looking for a Queen. 
> 
> Here is the best site I have found for reference (been using it for years!!):
> 
>  
> 
> [GAY HANKY CODES ](https://user.xmission.com/~trevin/hanky.html)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> As always, my lovelies, let me know what you think. I <3 your comments!!
> 
> Just a warning, I may be a bit slower with future updates, got myself a little side-tracked. I will be doing my very best to stay on track though!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's gone off on his own, and made it abundantly clear that he doesn't need John's help with the case.
> 
> Of course, John's decided to follow the Mad Genius anyway.

It was a short ride to the club; John, for once having managed to flag down a cab within only a minute of leaving the flat, a true miracle for him.

_Maybe Sherlock has a point wearing all this posh shit all the time, people actually notice you…_

John spent his time in the back of the cab looking over the club’s website again, seeing that as good a place to start as any, since he had nothing else to go on from Sherlock. He’d at least be able to get an idea of who the staff and cast were.

He had been out of the scene, living an entirely new life, ( _well, multiple lives really_ ) for years. He didn’t recognize any of the cast, only Mika, the owner. He again couldn’t help but admire what the kid had done with his life since John had last seen him. The club appeared to be wildly successful; attracting diverse clientele and cast alike. The club’s site heavily featured many past featured performers who had moved on from the venue; touring or performing headliner shows.

John knew, better than most after working with Sherlock for so long, that you couldn’t truly trust the photos that people choose to display to give you an accurate picture of their life; it was easy enough to only show what you wanted people to see. Even knowing this, John could tell the welcoming atmosphere of the club was not likely faked.

Even if he didn’t consider the inclusive nature of the line-up and the other community services that the club offered, the pictures showed people happy, laughing, enthralled with performing or in watching the performers. John considered himself a good judge of character, and again, his years spent trailing behind Sherlock like a trusty bloodhound had taught him a thing or two - taught him to look at the details.

These were pictures of a family, working together. He could see that the smiles, the laughter - they were all genuine. He knew Sherlock could look at these pictures and tell what everyone did for their day jobs, or what they had had to eat that day, or any number of other minutiae, but John saw the emotion in the photos. He could see who cared for who, who pined for another; he didn’t spot snide looks, backhanded sneers, anything to indicate that these people didn’t genuinely care for one another.

Before long, the cabbie announced their arrival. John passed off the fare to the driver and stepped out. The front of the club was done up like an old movie-house theater, complete with marquee, announcing the current cast, with smaller font at the bottom announcing, “and special guest.”

_He’s special, alright…_

John could see an alleyway on the side, which, he assumed probably led back to a staff entrance. There was a decent sized crowd out front; people milling about, talking, waiting for others, a few grabbing a smoke before heading inside. John could already see that the club attracted a wide-ranging audience; young, old, gay, straight and everything in between. It put a soft smile on his face to see how at least some things, had changed for the better since he’d last been in this world.

John already had his guard up though, keeping an eye open for anything suspicious, as he walked up to the door. He kept his head down as he paid the cover and made his way in. It's not that he was thinking too hard on any of the points Sherlock had made during his verbal onslaught earlier about being nominally famous and easy to spot, but he maybe did see how it wouldn’t be the best idea to shout to the world that he was here. John found it much easier though than Sherlock had given him credit for. While the detective may have his disguises, John was very good at something that Sherlock failed to consider - the ability to be forgettable. Even dressed far more fashionably than he usually did, John knew how to fold into himself just enough to be another anonymous, inconspicuous face in the crowd.

John walked through the lobby until it opened to a large bar area. As usual, John first took a quick glance around the club; noting the layout of the room - alcoves and hidden spots, exits, bathrooms - all the shadowy nooks and crannies he needed to be aware of due to Sherlock’s penchant of getting into trouble in the most inconvenient places. He noticed a door to a large outdoor patio area to his left, making a note to himself to check out once he’d gotten a drink. On the other side of the bar, John saw a large doorway to what he assumed was the theater portion of the club.

John let himself look around the club itself as he walked up to bar, and it was magnificent. Like the photos on the website showed, it looked like something straight out of the past, an old jazz house or illicit speak-easy, but still very warm and inviting. There were antique couches and chairs, grouped together, with people sitting and socializing, small tables with books of erotic photo collections and art placed here and there for perusal. As John waited his turn to order a drink, he took in the art covering the walls - a mad collection of paintings, photos, sculpture and graffiti. The subjects were of every gender, size, shape, and colour; the art ranging from vintage pin-ups to mild erotica to downright filthy porn, and absolutely everything in-between. John loved it.

When it was finally his turn, John ordered a whisky on the rocks, mainly just to have something in his hands while he scanned the crowd. He knew lone men tended to attract attention in bars like this; milling about - alone - without a drink would seem suspicious. Staff were usually hyper-aware because sometimes people came to harass and spout homophobic shite at anyone within earshot. Also, if John weren’t so modest, he would’ve noticed the appreciative looks he got from patron and staff alike. But he didn’t, like he usually didn’t and turned, stepping away from the bar. He headed out to the patio; it was a nice night, and he still had time before the theater was set to open. He found a small bench set back from the main area, still open enough that he could see the entire patio.

_I wish Sherlock had given up a bit about this bloody case. I have no fucking idea what I’m looking for here._

He was used to Sherlock leaving him in the dark when it came to the details of cases and his grand plans for solving it or catching the culprit. John was well-versed in playing along with whatever insane scheme Sherlock had in mind.

_More like playing catch-up._

_Jesus, this though? I have no fucking clue._

While he sat there, doubting words needled at his mind. He felt a tiny spike of panic thinking what if he took some action that was directly opposed to Sherlock’s plan, putting other performers, himself or (god no) Sherlock at risk? He only knew the basics; someone was harassing the performers.

_Maybe Sherlock left me out of this case for a reason. Maybe I really could fuck it up just by being here somehow. Yes, he’s left me off cases before, but he’s never been such a bloody dick about it._

What did he know how to do?

_I can watch. I’ve done that enough, I know what to look for._

This is the thought that put his head in the space it needed to be. He knew his job was to watch those around him. The small spike of doubt subsided. Sherlock knew that John was good at this; good at reading intentions, and more importantly, threats. If Sherlock didn’t know that John was in the club already, John would’ve been amazed.

_Three reasons he might not have contacted me by this point. One, he doesn’t realize that I followed him here - unlikely; two, he knows, but doesn’t give a shite if I’m here or not; three, I’m already doing what he wants me to do anyway._

Either way, it meant the same course of action for John. He’d sit and watch those around him until the plans changed. While John casually looked around, cataloguing the patrons, he noticed the crowd inside starting to head towards the theater.

He took his drink and went in. Following the crowd, he made his way to the theater. As he waited to head in, he could see a large blackboard display next to the doorway, announcing the evening’s cast. At the bottom of the list, he again saw “and Special Guest” but this time it included the name, “Milada Joelle.”

_Well, that must be Sherlock.  Milada Joelle. Interesting name, wonder where that came from?_

He entered the theatre and took in the details of the darkened space. It was intimate, with capacity for around a hundred or so. The rooms itself appeared to be round; the walls covered in dark velvet curtains. This certainly looked beautiful, but it made John slightly uncomfortable, considering the potential for anything to be behind the lush fabric.

Small tables with three to four chairs around each surrounded a large circular stage in the middle of the room. The stage was connected by a short runway to the back wall, then on to the backstage area.

Along the wall were small booths, with a table in front of each. John choose to sit in one of the booths, allowing him a clear view of entire room, but with a better sense of privacy.

While waiting for the start of the show, he carefully watched the audience coming in. He saw nothing to immediately arise suspicions, no one looking shifty or out of place. After a few minutes, the house lights began to lower as a single spot came up on a young Queen, done up to the nines, coming out onto the stage.

“Oh my god! Hello everyone!! It is so wonderful to have you here with us tonight! How are we all doing?” There was an enthusiastic round of applause before she continued, “Wonderful! Wonderful! For those of you new here, I am Chianti Morris and I will be your hostess for the evening, hope you don’t mind too terribly! Yeah! I am so excited! Let’s get the show on the road, my lovelies!”

John let his mind wander as the hostess continued her introductions. He kept his eye on the crowd, as she walked out and bantered with a few audience members. She made her rounds, but after a few minutes, the Queen introduced the first performer and the show began.

As John remembered Sherlock explaining earlier, the house cast performed for the first go around. While John kept most of his attention observing, he still enjoyed the show. As expected, it was incredible, no two performers had the same style. There were traditional Queens, one amazing King who sang a moving rendition of “Everybody Knows,” even a burlesque performer who did a classic fan dance.

During the intermission, John popped off to the loo. As he made his way through the crowd, he could see many of the performers milling about the bar, filling up on drinks and working the crowd. John figured it unlikely, but he kept an eye out for Sherlock, thinking maybe come out to entice the harasser.

As expected, he didn't see the detective. Thinking about Sherlock reminded John that he would be performing soon, after this intermission. Suddenly John's throat dried up and the room appeared to have lost a bit of its oxygen content. He ducked out to the patio for some needed fresh air

_Alright Watson, you can be an adult about this. If he can have the balls to get up there and perform, you can at least stop being a little bitch, and go in and watch. So what if he's dancing…. Oh God, that body moving up there… in that tight costume…._

John sighed to himself,and clenched his hand into a fist before forcing himself to relax. He took a healthy pull from his whisky, getting at least a little liquid courage in him to head back to the theatre.

_Just two more performances…. Then Sherlock. You can do this, John._

Thankfully, his seat was still open. He sat patiently through the first two performances. The hostess was a spectacular entertainer, playing with the audience, joking back and forth, but before John knew it, the bedazzled Queen was announcing Sherlock to the stage.

“Everyone, we have a very special guest with us tonight, a dear friend of our very own big boss himself, Mika. So, since I want to keep the boss-man happy, wouldn't everyone please be a doll and give a warm welcome to…… Milada Joelle!!

The lights slowly went out to engulf the room in inky blackness as the Queen stepped back. A single soft spot came up on a pole that was now gracing the middle of the stage. At the same time, soft bluesy beat began playing over the sound system. Another spot came up slowly on Sherlock at the back of the catwalk. As the beat continued, he slinked up to the center of the stage, one hand perched on his hips, which swung seductively as he moved.

John was frozen, his mouth parted, though he could barely breathe, taking in the sight of the detective in full wig and costume. The wig was dark, similar to Sherlock’s hair, but longer, with the curls styled in the pinned-up rolls of the forties. The costume was as Sherlock had described, a beautiful rich off-white velvet full-sleeved leotard, with antique gold trim. A biased skirt of sheer gold wrapped around his hips. He was the vision of a perfect ballerina, right down to the slippers. To finish off the look, from what John could see, Sherlock appeared to have a minimum amount of padding at his hips and chest; just enough to give him a slightly softer, more feminine figure.

John was in awe watching the man move to the stage. John knew that sherlock would’ve have adopted a character or persona tonight, but watching him under those stage lights, it was like he had never seen this man before. Sherlock always moved with purpose and an air of proper stiff upper-lip formality. This stunning creature on stage was effortless, liquid, sensual grace.

John was lost; no thoughts on the case or observing the audience. He only had eyes for Sherlock, watching as he approached the pole onstage, and as if it were a long-lost love, reach a hand up to caress the cold steel. He drew himself in, gripped the metal and gave a graceful spin around on impossibly pointed toes. John could see that Sherlock caught eyes with a lot of the audience as he turned, but he never raised his eyes to the seating along the back wall where John was.

The vocals began, a rich alto, and Sherlock’s lip-synching was perfect.

 

_"When you get older, plainer, saner_

_When you remember all the danger we came from_

_Burning like embers, falling, tender_

_Long before the days of no surrender_

_Years ago and well you know."_

 

John watched as Sherlock danced to the wistful lyrics, his movements an unbelievable combination of pole dancing and ballet, with all the pirouettes and grace and allure and sex rolled into one. He danced around the cold piece of metal as if it were the lover the song spoke to; his movements a seduction, a warm sensual caress on imagined skin.

 

_"Smoke 'em if you got 'em_

_'Cause it's going down_

_All I ever wanted was you_

_I'll never get to heaven_

_'Cause I don't know how_

_Let's raise a glass or two"_

 

Sherlock turned to the audience and there was so much heartbreak and loss on his face as he pleaded with those that caught his eye _ _ _.___

 

_"To all the things I've lost on you_

_Oh oh Tell me are they lost on you?_

_Oh oh Just that you could cut me loose_

_Oh oh After everything I've lost on you_

_Is that lost on you?_

_Oh oh Is that lost on you?_

_Oh oh Baby, is that lost on you?_

_Is that lost on you?"_

 

As the second verse began, John started paying more attention to the lyrics.

 

_"Wishing I could see the machinations_

_Understand the toil of expectations in your mind_

_Hold me like you never lost your patience_

_Tell me that you love me more than hate me all the time_

_And you're still mine"_

 

Since John was really taking in the lyrics this time (the brain-melting shock of seeing another ridiculously gorgeous version of Sherlock having subsiding enough that he could function), the words stung in a way. It was so close to how he felt about the man. He wished he could understand the genius brain, understand how he thought, what made him tick. He wanted to hold Sherlock, wanted to make him understand the depths of his feelings for him, make him understand that he could never stand to lose him again.

 

_"So smoke 'em if you've got 'em_

_'Cause it's going down_

_All I ever wanted was you_

_Let's take a drink of heaven_

_This can turn around_

_Let's raise a glass or two"_

 

During the entire performance, Sherlock had never made eye contact with the back of room, keeping his interaction with the tables close to him. But during this tiny moment of the song, when Sherlock had just completed some impossible twisting pirouette move around the pole that required agility John would surely be fantasizing about later tonight, Sherlock looked up, and caught eyes with John, while he sang the words _All I ever wanted was you_. During that eternity of five seconds, everything other than Sherlock melted away, ceased to exist. Even across the distance of the room, John felt a heat in that gaze he had never thought Sherlock capable.

 

Too quickly, Sherlock’s eyes left John’s and the doctor felt his world sway around him for just a moment.

 

_"To all the things I've lost on you_

_Oh oh Tell me are they lost on you?_

_Oh oh Just that you could cut me loose_

_Oh oh After everything I've lost on you_

_Is that lost on you?_

_Oh oh Is that lost on you?_

_Oh oh, oh oh Baby, is that lost on you?_

_Is that lost on you?_

_Let's raise a glass or two_

_To all the things I've lost on you_

_Oh oh Tell me are they lost on you?_

_Oh oh Just that you could cut me loose_

_Oh oh After everything I've lost on you"_

 

Sherlock was at the end of the song, making a dramatic show of dropping to his knees; the words of the song appearing to be wrenched from him with all the heartbreak in the world. John felt his chest clench watching this moving show of vulnerability from Sherlock, even if it were all an act for the case.

 

_"Is that lost on you? Is that lost on you?"_

 

As the song finished, the lights dimmed on Sherlock’s prone figure, then a few seconds later, the hostess’s voice rang through the sound system. The lights came up and John could see that Sherlock was already gone. The hostess came back out, continuing on with banter and introductions and all that, but John would never have be able to tell you what the hell she said, because his mind was still with Sherlock.

He was already replaying the routine in his mind, watching the aerobatic twists and turns, the graceful spins, the caress of sheer material on muscle thighs. John had no idea Sherlock was capable of such lithe, limber movement. Sherlock had obviously studied at some point. John wondered how many hours young Sherlock spent training, practicing, perfecting.

_Because of course, he knows fucking ballet. Why not? Why couldn’t it have been something else?? Polka would’ve been easier to handle than this. Just something else to make him the sexiest prick on the fucking planet. It should be bloody illegal for him to be able to move like that._

The next performer was up, doing a rather impression belly dancing routine. John knew it was a bit of a faux pas to leave during a set, but he had to get air, he had to get out of the darkened room. He quietly and quickly as possible made his way to the door and slipped out. He stopped at the bar for pint, then bee-lined to the patio.

Sitting on his bench from earlier, he worked on getting his heart and breathing back under control. He set his drink down, then with his head resting on his hands, slowly took deep breathe in and out, in and out.

One thought kept tumbling over and over.

_He looked at me. During those lyrics… “All I ever wanted was you” … He looked right at me, no other time, just those words..._

_Why… why would he do that?_

_Unless…_

_He meant it??_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the club is, of course, a figment of my imagination. It's actually a mix of two of my local bars, plus a dash of how I'd design a space if I had one.
> 
> Here is my favorite version of the song sung by one of the other performers, [Everybody Knows](https://youtu.be/wfLOt5P6nSk) by Leonard Cohen (performed by Sigrid - from the Justice League Soundtrack). 
> 
> For Sherlock's performance, the song he is performing to is [Lost on You](https://youtu.be/hn3wJ1_1Zsg), by LP. Ever since I first heard that song, I knew I had to include it in a story someday. We may even see (later) why he picked that song!
> 
> As always, not beta'd, or Brit-pick'd, Let me know what I missed!
> 
> You can always check me out in the great big world -  
> Twitter: [Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock)  
> Tumblr: [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is left awestruck at Sherlock’s first performance. Does he have the courage to stay for his second song?

John sat out on the patio long enough that the show came to the next intermission. People began wandering out to mingle and get drinks. John watched the crowd; people talking and enjoying the company of their friends. People not on the verge of a goddamn panic attack because the love of their life didn't just play them like Sherlock did. 

John got up and went the loo. After a few splashes of water in his face, he stared at himself in the mirror. He took a deep breath, debating with himself what to do next. 

_He knows I’m here._

_He saw me._

_How the fuck am I supposed to go back in there?_

_No, no, no… How the fuck can I leave? I can’t fucking leave now._

John knew he couldn't, he was frankly tired of being a coward. After the shit that Sherlock had pulled at the flat and now this, he was too fucking confused - he needed to know where this was going. He wanted so badly to believe that Sherlock had looked at him on purpose, that he wanted to send him a very specific message. John knew that he needed to stay so he could see what Sherlock had in store for his second set. 

John gathered his courage and went back into the theatre, bypassing the bar and foregoing another drink. He tucked himself back into his booth to wait for the show to start. He scanned the crowd, knowing he was supposed to be paying attention for suspicious behavior, but he found he didn't have the energy. Too much had happened today, he had dealt with too many emotions, he just didn't have it in him to work out some damn case that Sherlock left him clueless on. 

 _Just sit back, watch the show, that's all I can do. All I'm good for at this point_. 

The performers came and went. They were all amazing, but John could never have been able to tell you what any of them were about. All he knew or could think about was the repeating mantra of thoughts tumbling in his mind. 

_He saw me_

_He looked right AT ME._

_It didn't mean THAT._

_No, how couldn't it? He can't be that fucking cruel?_

_Oh God, what's he going to do next?_

_I can't do this._

_I have to do this._

_Fuck!!_

Sitting there as the performances continued, John fought the temptation to get up and leave at least half a dozen times. With the chorus of rattling voices in his mind, he let his head drop to his hands, for just a moment, to try to gain some semblance of control over his thoughts. So wrapped up in trying to calm himself, he almost missed the hostess coming back out to the stage to announce the final performance of the night. 

“Alright, lovelies! I know you've all had a wonderful time tonight! Of course you have, we have been fantastic! And you all, oh my, you are all too delicious for words, I would take you all home if I could!! We’ll just see which one of you can pony up best when I head on over to the bar… But alas, I digress my pretties, we are at the end of our little show.”

John jerked his head up and stared at the stage. He felt his heart race, _Oh god, Sherlock is up._ Panic threatened to overtake him; he had never wanted to run away more in his life. He had stubbornly faced an abusive father as a child, bullets whizzing past him in foreign lands, and the vilest criminals in the speediest crevices of London, but the thought of seeing the (unrequited) love of his life like this, one more time, was the second-most frightening thing he had ever lived through; that dreaded day two years ago would forever rank number one.

“Let’s give a final welcome to our beautiful guest, Milada Joelle!!”

John watched as the young Queen walked back with a strut; the stage lights slowly coming down around her. When the room was finally black as pitch, a sound cut through the dark; the faint whisperings of piano notes filling the space. A few moments later, in that inky darkness, a rich baritone voice, instantly familiar to John, though only ever heard spoken, began singing.

_“I'll use you as a warning sign_

_That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind.”_

As soft lights came up on the stage, they revealed a poised Sherlock standing in the center, elegant, tall, and proud. He was dressed as he had described; a black, long-sleeved leotard, so drastic in it’s contrast to the genius’ pale complexion. The skirt, not just shimmery, but actually detailed with small crystals, flowed around him. He wore a wig that was made to look as if his hair was pulled back into the dramatic bun of a prima ballerina. Around his long, muscled legs were tied black satin ballet slippers. 

His eyes already were already locked on John.

_“And I'll use you as a focal point_

_So I don't lose sight of what I want.”_

For a brief moment, Sherlock closed his eyes and dropped his head. When Sherlock slowly rolled his head back up, he opened his eyes to face John with a heart-wrenching look of longing.

_“And I've moved further than I thought I could_

_But I missed you more than I thought I would.”_

Sherlock looked away again, finally acknowledging the rest of the audience. His eyes swept over the faces in front of him, pleading to them as he sang the sad tune that John now recognized as what he had heard playing from the bathroom when he had first come home that afternoon.

_“And I'll use you as a warning sign_

_That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind.”_

John watched in wonder as the exquisite man sang, clenching at his heart; the small movement reflecting such yearning. Sherlock sang to the crowd, telling of pain and yearning in small graceful movements around the stage.

_“And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me_

_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me.”_

Sherlock continued his slow sweep of the audience, before he turned for a moment to look to John again, his eyes burning with his rare brand of intensity. After what seemed an eternity, Sherlock turned his back to him, focus back to those at the closest tables to the stage. 

_“And I'll use you as a makeshift gauge_

_Of how much to give and how much to take_

_I'll use you as a warning sign_

_That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind.”_

John watched as Sherlock gripped at his head, slowly clenching, as if the pressure could take away the want, the desire. A slow steady beat began and the lean beautiful man began taking light steps on his toes around the stage, stretching his body to appeal to the crowd. 

_“And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me.”_

He turned in a graceful spin that made him shimmer; the lights catching on the small crystals of his skirt flowing around him as he twisted and turned, like something truly from another world. He ended the pirouette, turning to the other side of the room, then another spin brought him back round to face John, and Sherlock sang directly to him.

_“And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me.”_

A strong beat started and Sherlock began spinning on pointed toes, gliding and stretching himself around the stage in seemingly impossible ways that had John hypnotized. The beat picked up and Sherlock’s movements built in passion, like some impassioned dervish, until a final glorious pirouette. His spin stopped and his eyes instantly locked onto John’s one final time. 

_“Oh, and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me._

_And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be.”_

John could only watch and listen as Sherlock sang with so much despair, that his own chest felt like it was caving in. 

_“Right in front of me_

_Talk some sense to me.”_

With these final words, Sherlock spun and threw himself into a series of pirouettes around the stage, before finally crashing to his knees in the center of the stage, his head down in supplication. The stage lights slowly came down in silence, John watching as the dark engulfed Sherlock. In the last moment before the light was gone, Sherlock raised his eyes to John; the look of fear and longing that met him knocked nearly all the air from his lungs. 

In the dark, the audience began applauding madly. John wanted to join, but he was completely and totally stunned. The lights came up to an empty stage, followed by the house lights. One last time the hostess came out to wish everyone good night. As the audience began to file out, one thought came to John.

_I have to find Sherlock. Now._

John got up and made his way to the exit, pushing past the other patrons. He doubted Sherlock would come out to the front bar after that, more likely he would try to slip out the staff entrance in back, but John still glanced around as he weaved through the crowded bar, just to be certain. With no statuesque ballerina in sight, John fought his way through the happy crowd, finally making it to the front exit. He stepped out, looked around, hoping to maybe catch sight of the detective. John turned to go down the alleyway, when he heard a voice behind him call out.

“Excuse me, can I help you? We only allow staff only down there, please.”

He turned to apologize, but before he could speak, the speaker shrieked, “Oh my god! John? John Watson, is that you?”

John looked up to see the owner, Mika, the young Queen he remembered fondly, now looking a proper posh businessman, decked out in a suit to the rival Sherlock's usual attire, looking him over with a delighted smile.

“Hey! Yeah, it’s me. How've you been?” He reached out to shake the man’s hand, but got pulled into a hearty hug instead.

“Well, not too terrible, I must say,” as he gestured at the marquee above him. “How are you? Didn’t you run off to join the army?” He said with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Yeah, sure did. Got me a medical degree, a lot of sand in really inappropriate places, and a bullet in my shoulder. But life’s good now. Can’t complain.” John was happy to see his old friend but was getting anxious; he still hadn’t seen Sherlock come out. “Actually, Mika, my life now is kinda why I’m here.”

“Was wondering what could’ve brought ol’ Johnnie Boy out after so long.”

“Umm, actually I’m looking for Sherlock. Said he was on a case for you, that’s why he performed tonight?”

“Sherlock? He left already. How do you know… Oh my god, I didn’t know you’re the John they were talking about!”

“What, he left already?!” 

John couldn't help the look of complete disbelief on his face, that Sherlock had actually left him behind. After everything that happened that night, Sherlock just left. 

“I'm sorry, but I think he left as soon as he was done. Shucked off the wig, changed and took off, said he had other plans he needed to get to.”

John held his anger back, no need to get Mika involved in their little domestic. But something Mika had said finally caught up with him. 

“Wait… What do you mean _that_ John?”

“Well, I contacted Sherlock, excuse me… Billie for tonight,” he said with a wink, “because some of my performers were being harassed. Well, we thought they were. Thankfully, Sherlock got it all sorted for us. It was one of my girls that put me in contact with Sherlock in the first place. They said that he and his partner, John, had helped their aunt with some missing jewelry a few years ago. I would’ve never made the connection that you were that John. Oh! That makes so much sense now!”

“Wait, what do you mean Sherlock got it sorted? He solved it already?”

“Well, yes. Not much to solve really, he had it all figured out before the show even started tonight.”

“Are you serious?” John felt his pulse speed up, feeling ridiculous now for having followed him.  

_Of fucking course! All this, me coming out here, following him, was for fucking nothing! Then what the hell was that show? I mean, why the fuck did he still do it, if he didn’t need to, didn't need to keep up the act? Fuck! He knew I was there, he saw me, he looked right the fuck at me. What? Was that all a fucking joke to him? And why did he fucking leave?_

“Yeah, he said there wasn’t much to it really. John, you ok?”

“Yeah, he just didn’t tell me much about this one, which he does sometimes. Didn’t let me know he got it worked out. Gets a little irritating sometimes. If I might ask, what was the problem?”

“Like I said, nothing much really. One of our regulars, sweet kid named Frankie, got a little over-enthusiastic trying to welcome our guests. He’s a little, shall we say, socially awkward; not many friends or the best family situation growing up type of deal. We’ve always tried to make him feel at home, so we let him come and go as he pleases. He picked up on things he overheard people talking about and decided to take it upon himself to leave the trinkets and such, trying to do his best welcome our guest performers. He didn’t let anyone see him, because he wanted it to be a surprise.”

“But weren’t some left at people’s homes or in their car?

“Yes, but he actually knew where the one lived already, because they’re not a block from each other and the other, with the car, well… she’s a bit of a flighty gal; love her to death and all but… She said she ‘thinks’ she locked the car… I’m doubting it.”

“Good, so nothing nefarious. I bet Sherlock was disappointed. He didn’t scare the kid too badly, did he?”

“Oh no, not at all! Actually, he was really sweet about it. Took Frankie off to side to talk for a bit. Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard him talking about trying to fit in, remembering to think about what you say and do, finding a friend to help when it gets confusing, all that. Seemed like maybe he understood the kid a bit.”

John was a bit taken aback hearing that; Sherlock was never the one to comfort clients or victims… or well, anyone. And about finding a friend to help… Thoughts of how many times he’s looked at Sherlock with his “Bit Not Good” face suddenly flashing by him. “Well, that’s… that’s good. Just really wish he hadn't left without me, hate it when he does that. ”

“I’m sorry, John. Shit… Don’t say there’s trouble in paradise with you two?”

John couldn't help the look on his face; he was used to the assumptions, but this time it stung more than usual, considering everything that had happened and his own whirling, confusing thoughts. 

“Oh no no, it's not like that. We’re not together or anything. We’re flatmates, just friends, business partners is all. Like I said, he likes to leave me in the dark, run off on his own, and it's really fucking irritating sometimes.”

Mika gave him a disbelieving look, leaned in and quieted his voice. “John, come on, if you’re keeping it on the quiet, you and him, I understand, you know I do. I wouldn’t say anything.”

“No, really. We’re just friends. We’ve known each other for years, and ours is maybe not the most conventional friendship…. But trust me, I’m certain Sherlock doesn’t do relationships anyway, so it’s not even an option.” 

Mika was quiet for a second, looking over John in a way that was oddly similar to Sherlock’s own brand of scrutiny, until a wry smile crinkled at the corner of his lips.

“John, this really is none of my business, but oh well, that’s never stopped my mouth before. I’ve been in the performance business in some way or another for going on, oh, fifteen, twenty years now. I’ve gotten good at reading people; where they’re drawing their ‘inspiration’ from. Most importantly, I can tell when someone is simply fabricating a performance, and when someone is living out a fantasy.”

John shot him a slightly confused look, trying to follow where this was going.

“When Sherlock came in tonight, I introduced him as Billie, an old friend of mine, in town for the weekend, willing to do a few numbers for us on the fly. He tried to fit in with everyone, did a pretty good job of it, camping it up; fooled the others, but I could tell he was acting. That is, until he started talking about his gorgeous boyfriend, who sadly couldn’t make it to the show, previous plans and all that. His gorgeous _military doctor_ boyfriend, Hamish, who helped him with his make-up tonight, spoiling him ‘oh so good.’ He lit up talking about him. Now, how many ex-military doctors do I know that can do Face? Whose middle name, if I remember correctly, is Hamish? Oh… Just the one standing in front of me.”

“Trust me, Sherlock is a really good actor; he was just telling a lie using information he knows, it’s easier to remember that way.”

“No John, when he was talking about you that's when he wasn’t acting. If I was a betting man, I’d wager to say he was getting the chance to say, out loud, things that he has thought about, fantasized about, for a very long time.” There was silence between them for a moment, until Mika quietly continued, “It was you he was looking at during that last song, wasn’t it?”

John opened his mouth to deny it, but when he saw the look in Mika’s eye, he gave up and gave a small nod. 

“And if that look you get on your face when you talk about him is any indication, I’d say what you feel for him is a touch stronger than as a friend or a flatmate?”

Again, all John could do was nod. Mika pulled him gently over to sit him down at an empty bench in front of the building. 

“Oh, Johnny boy, have you said anything to him?”

“No. I can’t. I just can't. Sherlock doesn't do sentiment. It's… complicated.” John had to laugh. 

J _esus Christ, what a goddamn cliché._  

“You're afraid, aren't you?”

“You have no goddamn idea.” John couldn't explain he was being so open; these are things he hadn't had the courage to say out loud, even to the himself, and now he was opening up to a kid he hadn't seen in a lifetime.

“I lost Sherlock for two years, and it was the worst thing I have ever gone though. If I'm wrong… If I fuck up what we have… If I lose him again… I just can't.”

“Oh god, I remember hearing about that. I'm so sorry John, I don't keep up on the news like I should; I didn’t know that was you. I can’t even imagine going through that.”

John gave a sort of shuffled grin and waved him off. He was trying to keep his wits about him just a little longer. 

_Certainly wouldn't do to have a crying fit out on the pavement._

“But John, you can't do this to yourself. Trust me, I know, I’ve been there; well maybe not your situation. I’d say yours is quite unique. But I’ve had the guys I've pined over, the ones I never got the balls to say anything to, and I can tell you this, if you don't talk to him, you will regret it. It will eat you up inside until you can't take it anymore. That never ends well. Plus, John? If I may be so bold?”

John looked for him to go on. 

“I never thought I'd see the man who took on - what was it three, no four- homophobic neo-Nazis who tried to hassle us girls in that seedy little joint all those years ago, back down from anything.” He said with a raised brow, the look challenging him to say something. 

_Fuck, he's right. I'm being a fucking coward._

“Well, ya know, when you put it that way…”

He got up from the bench, suddenly determined to get back to Baker Street as soon as possible. He moved to flag down a cab. He had no idea where Sherlock could be, but he'd have to come home at some point, and John would not risk missing him. 

“Ah! There's the John I remember! I swear, after that brawl with those neo-Nazi pricks, you could've had your choice of the bar that night!”

“Bloody hell, I don’t know about that!” He said with a chuckle and a bit of a blush, as a cab pulled up for him. He waved bye to Mika, apologizing for running off, but Mika waived him off. As John was getting in to the cab, he yelled over, “But, just so you know, it was five of them!” before taking off towards home. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The song that inspired this whole damned story in the first place!
> 
> The song is [I Found](https://youtu.be/Yj6V_a1-EUA) by Amber Run. From the moment I heard it, I knew it was a Johnlock song, and I needed to use it somewhere. This is is as good a place as any! And yes, if you've been paying attention, you'll notice this is where the title of the story came from. 
> 
> Also, I have added to the final chapter count. Seems I needed just a little longer to tell the whole story. 
> 
> As usual, not beta'd or Brit-picked, so please, don't hesitate to let me know what I missed! 
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> *Edit*
> 
> Forgot to add; In case you're interested, 
> 
> In my head, I see Chiwetel Ejiofor as Mika. We know he can pull off Drag (thank you, Kinky Boots), looks fan-fricking-tastic in a suit, and he is an AMAZING actor. And well, not gonna lie, didn't mind having him rolling around in my head, telling John to get his shit together.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> Come find me in the outside world! 
> 
> Twitter : [Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock)
> 
>  
> 
> Tumblr: [Pufflelock](http://pufflelock.tumblr.com)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The show is over, the case is solved... But where is Sherlock?

The cab ride was a near impossible challenge for John’s nerves. His leg bounced a steady staccato rhythm as the cab slowly weaved its way through London traffic. While the club wasn't far from the flat, to John, it could’ve been the other side of the globe for the glacial pace of traffic. He silently pleaded for the idiotic drivers surrounding them to just _go faster._

He thought it unlikely that Sherlock would have returned home right away. If he had slipped out as quickly as Mika had said, that meant Sherlock was wanting to avoid him, since he would know that John would’ve come looking for him as soon as he could. Sherlock had likely gone off to wander the city, as he often did when avoiding John for whatever reason.

_But why? I want to believe he meant it; that this isn’t some fucking lark, but why wouldn’t he wait for me? Why wouldn’t he want to see me? Oh god, what if he regrets it, changed his mind about the whole damn thing? Probably saw me leering like a creeper and it disgusted him._

John leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to hold back the headache threatening him. He remembered the way Sherlock looked at him while he sang; could see his magnificent face while being a vulnerable. Even while performing to something so heart-breaking, he looked so young, so free. He had performed beautifully, like he was meant for the stage. The memory of the song caused a fierce clench of hope to grip at his heart.

_Unless, I mean... what if? What if he does want, he does feel for me like this, but.. he’s… scared? I mean, I haven’t done anything. I haven’t told him how I feel. Why? Because I’m fucking scared. I’m scared I’m wrong; scared that I’ll say something or do something he doesn’t want, and I’ll lose him again._

_What if he thinks the same thing?_

John opened his eyes when the cabbie announced they’d arrived. He handed off the fare and got out to face their flat. He had never seen a door that looked so inviting and so menacing all at once. John looked up to see if there was any sign that Sherlock was already home, but there were no lights on, no dark figure watching him from the window.

 _Maybe he’s just not home_ anymore _. You could have missed him already, idiot._

John put his key in the door and made his way in. He could hear Mrs. Hudson’s telly quietly whispering inside 221A. At this time of night, it meant

she had likely fallen asleep in her chair again. He knew she sometimes stayed up when she heard her boys heading out for the night. Smiling warmly at the thought of someone as fierce as Mrs. Hudson caring for them in such a motherly way, he crept up the stairs to their flat, careful to avoid the creaky stair, just as Sherlock had done earlier.

As expected, the flat was empty, but more importantly, there were no sign that Sherlock had already come home. John even crept down to Sherlock’s room to check, but everything was the same as when he had left earlier. This gave John a glimmer of hope. While he doubted that Sherlock would be home anytime soon - the man was worse than him at avoiding the flat when he needed to think - he didn't leave with anything with him that would allow for a long-term stay away.

_Unless he’s got things stashed in one of his bolt-holes… No. He has to come home tonight. He has to. Please._

John knew that it would be pointless to text or call him now. When Sherlock was avoiding him, he did a rather thorough job of it. John could accept that. Sherlock was a right stubborn arse; he could accept that too. John had realized during the cab ride home, that he could accept pretty much anything Sherlock wanted to throw at him, for the rest of their lives, except for one.

He could not accept that Sherlock didn't know how to he felt about him. John knew Mika was right; if he didn't tell Sherlock that he was the single greatest thing that had ever happened to him, that John wasn't honestly terrified with the depth of his love for the self-proclaimed sociopath, it would eat at him till he turned bitter and hateful from it. He couldn’t let that happen to them; not after everything they had been through, after having lost him once already, not when everything except John's own gnawing doubt, told him that Sherlock felt the same.

John knew he was in for a long night. He thought about changing, making himself a bit more comfortable, but decided against it. He needed to be alert right now, not comfortable. John was in for a waiting game with Sherlock on this one, and he was ready for it. Though John constantly nagged at Sherlock to sleep more, John was an ex-army man, and a stubborn one to boot; he was fully capable of surviving on far less sleep than Sherlock seemed to think.

He hung his jacket up, then went to the kitchen for tea; needing the warm liquid to calm his nerves. Once made, John went to his chair and let himself relax enough to make the long wait tolerable. He couldn’t believe that just this morning the most exciting thing he thought coming his way was whether Sherlock had deduced that he was coming home early.

_And now look at us. Sherlock, a Drag Queen, and me, the sorry sod waiting for him to come back home. But God… he was fucking amazing. It shouldn't be any surprise, really. You of all people know that man can move like a panther when he wants to. Hmm, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective by day; Milada Joelle, Drag Queen by night._

_Wait… Joelle, why does that sound familiar?_

John suddenly remembered a project from primary school. His teacher had asked the students to research the history of their names, and well, with as common as a name as _John_ , there was plenty of information out there for him. One of the most fascinating things he learned was how many variations of his name there were, in countless languages, including female variations. John grabbed his phone to confirm his suspicion and was rewarded with a long list of female variations of John.

Joelle was, in fact, on the list.

Next, he decided to look up the meaning of the name Milada, which he was completely unfamiliar with. A few taps on his phone, and there it was, in black and white,

**“The name Milada is a girl's name of Czech origin meaning ‘my love’.”**

_My love, John._

_His name… the name he chose…._

_My love, John._

John spent the next few hours occupying his time waiting, worrying, and fighting back and forth between moments of anger and doubt followed by a warm feeling thinking about the name Sherlock had chosen.

Around three in the morning, he did allow himself a quick twenty-minute power nap; a trick to keep going he had learned during long exhausting patrols in the desert.

_I'm not back to work until Monday. I can survive the whole bloody weekend on twenty-minute naps if I need to._

It didn't look as if that would be necessary though, because finally, around 4:30 in the morning, while John sat in his chair working on last week’s abandoned crossword, he heard the front door creak open. Calm and steady, now that adrenaline flooded his veins, he quietly cast the paper aside, and turned his head slowly, listening as Sherlock gently made his way up the stairs. With each step, John felt his heart thud heavier in his chest, but he stayed where he was, curious to see what Sherlock would do with him just sitting there.

John smirked as he watched Sherlock go for the door leading to the kitchen. He knew the younger man was heading straight through to his bedroom, assuming he'd be asleep by this time, never usually staying up this late of his own accord. Sherlock seemed to have made a point to stay out until he “knew” John would be asleep normally. When Sherlock entered the flat, John watched as his steps lead down to his bedroom, not even turning to the sitting room to look.

_Such a cocky little shit. No way he thinks his assumptions could be wrong, I couldn't possibly still be awake._

John watched Sherlock, still clad in the supple black leather coat, heavy boots in his hand to avoid the clunky bootsteps, he creeped down the hallway, about to turn into the bathroom. “Hey Sherlock!” John said, friendly, if not a slight louder than he would’ve normally, but John couldn't help getting a kick out of surprising the detective lately.

Sherlock jumped, making quite an embarrassing squeak and dropping the bag and boots he was carrying. He stopped, but didn’t turn, his shoulders slumped much the same as they had earlier in the day. John watched as the younger man picked up his things, collected himself with a huff, before finally turning to face him, his makeup still holding up, still beautiful on him; his expression underneath a careful veil of indifference.

“John, I believe I said it was unnecessary to wait up for me. While I appreciate your concern, you should know, sleep is a much worthier endeavor for you at this time of day.”

John just shot him a hard look in response. One that he hoped conveyed, “Sherlock, you are not getting out of this by acting like a dick; pretending we both did not know that I was there tonight and that I saw you and that you looked right the fuck at me and we need to talk about this. Right now.”

After keeping Sherlock’s eye a moment longer, John’s expression softened. The two men stared at each other; each trying to read the indecipherable emotions on the other’s face. Sherlock was the first to look away; his eyes fluttering nervously before looking down. John would have never thought he’d say this, but the younger man almost looked _demure._ John got up from his chair and headed to the kitchen to fill the kettle. The soldier in him pulled every bit of military steal he had to keep his voice even and cool.

“Sherlock, you’re probably pretty knackered. Why don’t you grab a shower and wash your face? Trust me, you don’t want to crash with that still on. The face wash you have should work pretty well, but don’t forget the coconut oil for the stubborn stuff. I’ll have tea waiting for you when you’re done, ok?”

Sherlock gave a slight nod, eyes still down. He looked up briefly, like he wanted to say something, but instead, he turned into the bathroom. John busied himself with making tea while he listened to the sounds of Sherlock in the bath, trying not to think of him naked, under the hot water streaming from the showerhead; scrubbing away the sweat and glitter of the night. About the time the tea was done, he heard Sherlock go into his bedroom. John worried that Sherlock would head straight to bed, foregoing the tea and much needed chat. He found he could breathe again when he heard Sherlock’s door opening and his bare feet padding down the hallway. Sherlock came into the sitting room; face back to normal, hair damp, pyjamas on and dressing gown firmly in place. He sat in his chair with an aloofness that John could tell was terribly forced. He handed Sherlock his tea, then sat opposite in his own chair. They each concentrated a little too hard on the mugs in their hands.

_Ok John, you know you are going to have to start this. You know he’s not going to say anything._

He set his cup down in order to look at Sherlock without distraction. “So, I heard you solved the case.”

“Oh really, and how is that?” Sherlock wouldn’t even look up from his tea.

“I ran into Mika when I went outside looking for you.” Sherlock did glance up at that; the slight squint, and crinkle between his eyes giving away his surprise.

_Yes, you beautiful git, I’m flat-out admitting I was there. I'm done playing this game._

John leaned back in his chair, crossing his leg under him, getting comfortable, trying to look casual, even though he could feel his heart wanting to beat out of his chest. “Guess you didn’t realize I knew him. Probably why you let his name slip earlier. That’s how I figured out where you were going to be tonight, by the way, but you probably knew that already. Not too many people named Mika in the Drag business.”

John paused, careful to keep his eyes on Sherlock, reading his face as best he could, but all he got was Sherlock’s infamous shroud of posh apathy. He knew he was going to have to do something to break through his defenses.

Looking at the younger man he loved so dearly in front of him, he quietly spoke with a soft smile and what could only be described as a twinkle in his eye, “You know, you were really amazing up there.”

_God, it feels good to say that out loud._

The facade of Sherlock’s face broke for just a quick moment; a quick tick at the corner of his lips, the start of the smile he wanted to give, unable to hide how John's praise affected him. Just as quickly though, Sherlock looked down again to avoid his eyes. John saw a shadow of _something_ cross his face; something John was certain he did not like.

“I mean it, Sherlock. I’ve seen enough performers in my day, and you… you were meant for the stage. Why on earth wouldn’t you have wanted me there to see that?”

Sherlock glanced up with a heated glare. “I told you, I did not need you for the case, John, it was really quite simple. I had it taken care of, I was doing it more as a personal favour than anything. And besides, as I suspected, you were recognized.”

“Yes Sherlock, I was recognized because I lived that life for a long damn time. I knew Mika when I worked in the bars, when my whole life was surrounded by all of this.” John couldn't stop himself from standing and pacing, so frustrated that Sherlock had left him out, even after he found out that John had been an active part of the Drag community. “I know what it's like, I’ve watched Queens get hassled, seen stalkers go after them. Hell, you don't think I've had slurs thrown at me? Jesus Sherlock, half the time I wasn’t working on Harry's makeup, I was the muscle keeping the homophobic pricks away.” He couldn’t help the irritation from his voice, being reminded of Sherlock’s earlier tirade, knowing how useless Sherlock thought he was. “And maybe, just maybe, if you recognized that sometimes, you are not the fucking expert on everything, I could’ve been of some help. Listen, Sherlock, I know I'm just your bloody sidekick but I'm not a complete moron, especially when we’re talking about a community I was an active part of for years!”

“You’re my what?”

It took John a moment to rewind what he had just said to figure out what Sherlock was on about. “Your sidekick, Sherlock. You know, the bumbling fool that follows behind the hero, helping when they can, trying not to make too big of a mess of things? But Christ Sherlock, I’m not that big of a fool, I…”

Sherlock cut him off with a sharp “No.”

“No what?”

“You’re not my _sidekick_.” He said with a sneer. John felt like an idiot with Sherlock staring up at him like that, and all it was doing was feeding the fire of John’s anger. Standing behind his chair, shaking his head, he gave a sniff and quiet heated chuckle, all while staring down at Sherlock's feet. He caught himself gripping the top of his chair to keep his hands from finding something to throw.

_Oh... Well... Right, fuck you then... What am I, just your little errand boy?_

“John, you're my partner.”

_Wait, what?_

John whipped his head up to look at Sherlock, who was setting his cup down, then turning slowly, deliberately, to look at John

“First of all, I am no hero. You would be the one to fill that particular archetype if our lives were turned into any sort of cohesive narrative, John. No offense to your blog.”

“Umm, thank you, but no. You’re the one that solves the cases. You were doing this long before I showed up. I just tag along; I'm the muscle or the gun when you need it, or a fill in for Billy.” He said with a nod to the skull. “This is The Work, your Work.”

John was taken aback by the look Sherlock gave him, an odd mix of sadness and exasperation.

“You are so much more than just the muscle or a stand-in for the skull, John, how on earth do you not see that? You are a highly intelligent and skilled medical doctor. You were not only a soldier, but you were a Captain, confident and able to lead a command through hell and back. You are smart, John, so much more so than I ever give you credit for; you have to the ability to see the things that I miss. You point my intelligence in the right direction. You can navigate incredibly troubling human interactions as I will never be able to; you are kind, understanding, empathetic. John, how many cases have we solved solely because of your ability to simply talk to people? I may have had The Work before, but I couldn't do it without you now; wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t want to do it. What I did before didn't matter to me like it does now, with you as a part of it. John, there would be no Work without you.”

John stood up straight, shocked at the words coming from Sherlock. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly a desert. He slowly came around to sit again while Sherlock spoke, leaning towards the younger man without a conscious thought.

“Then why didn’t you want me there tonight, Sherlock?”

“I had not planned for you to be present.”

“Yes, but you change your plans all the bloody time, usually forgetting to tell me, mind you.” John eyebrows quirked up in jest, he really couldn't help himself.

“Well, you showed up anyway, so I hardly see why it matters.”

“It matters because of what we are not talking about Sherlock.”

“Please, enlighten me John, what would that be?” The challenge in his voice raised the tension between the men; the air thick with it already.

“You knew I was there. Hell, I figure you knew probably as soon as I showed up; smelled my cologne in the air or some other craziness. But even if you didn't, you saw me in the audience, you looked right at me. So, why did you run off after the show? Why didn't you wait for me?” John knew how pathetic he sounded, pleading with the man in front of him.

When Sherlock didn't answer, only looking down and shaking his head slowly, John decided to switch tactics.

“I meant what I said before. You were brilliant up there, absolutely beautiful. And god, your voice… I didn’t know you could sing.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was much more palatable for you to look at me like that, John.” Sherlock was quiet, his words barely above a whisper.

John still heard him though and couldn't help but be taken aback by Sherlock's response; his words filled with a bite that John was not expecting.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Sherlock “You said I was beautiful. Beautiful? Why? Maybe because I was suddenly something familiar to you, John? Could pretend I was some dainty female?”

“Are you fucking serious? I told you, Sherlock, I am bisexual, I’m attracted to men, you looking more feminine tonight has nothing to fucking do with it.”

“Then why now John, why now suddenly do you find me _beautiful_? Now that I was conveniently adorned in the trappings of the fairer gender? As much as you have denied any implications of homosexuality all these years, perhaps your Uni dalliances really were just part of a phase, John. You've never felt the need to clarify until now.”

“Oh really? A phase? Excuse me, Mr. High and Mighty, but I’m not the only one here! When the hell have you ever said anything? I have no idea how you identify; gay, straight, bi, ace? I have no idea. All I know is that you always talk of detesting sentiment and have never shown the even slightest interest in anyone.”

“Really John, I said very clearly that first night at Angelo’s. Remember? You asked if I had a girlfriend, I said that was “not my area”, meaning women are not my area, you then asked if I had a boyfriend, I said no, a simple no, meaning not now. I’m gay, John, and was with no boyfriend at that time.”

“Oh my god, Sherlock, sorry, but that wasn’t clear at all! Remember, I had only just met you, I didn’t know how to speak “Sherlock” yet. You also said you were married to your work, so why the hell do you think I haven’t said anything before now? I knew it would be unwelcome, I knew it would just push you away. And I knew from the day I met you, I would do anything to be a part of your life.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he stared at the doctor. “So, what then, do I not meet your high standards of acceptable male beauty, John? This wraith-like pale figure not appealing to you until I put some padding on it? Let me guess, you prefer the muscular men of your Rugby days? Or perhaps the strapping examples of masculinity under your command, Captain?” John couldn’t sit any longer. He stood again, pacing the sitting room, trying to calm himself. Years of hiding his feelings rising to the surface, he almost understood how Sherlock felt when he got into one of his manic moods.

_Steady Watson, you can do this. Look at him, you know he’s lashing out, he’s on the defensive, he’s trying to push you away. He’s scared. Fucking hell! Just tell him how you feel, dammit!_

John took a deep breath and sat back down in his chair. He looked at Sherlock with what he hoped was an expression of the deepest sincerity. _I have to make him understand._ “Sherlock… you are beautiful; me thinking that is nothing new. It’s not something I suddenly saw because you threw on a dress and I slapped some colour on those ridiculous cheeks of yours. You are, by far, the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on. I’ve thought so ever since I walked into that lab at Bart’s. God, you were stunning; took everything to talk like a normal person with this vision in front of me. Do you realize how amazing you looked that day? And then, my God… you spoke. Sherlock, you looked at me, really looked at me in ways no one ever has; not my family, not my therapist, not any of my exes. You laid my life out in a matter of moments. You knew who I was, from a glance, and you have never made me apologize for any of it.” John had to take a moment to breath and look at Sherlock. Keeping his eyes on him, though it took every reserve of strength to do so, John continued. “Do you know that I almost didn't go out that day? Other than the blog, one of the things Ella pushed me to do was to get out of that bedsit, every day, no matter what, for at least a bit. Go do something; go to the store, walk around a park, anything. But god, that day, it was so fucking hard. Everything about my life felt… faded, like everything had just gone grey. I didn’t want to go out, I just wanted to stop fucking trying. All I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and clean my gun until the inevitable happened and I used the gun one final time. I don’t think you even realize that you saved my life that day.”

This revelation finally is what it took to break Sherlock’s concentration; the mask he wore so often and so completely finally gone as he gaped at John as he spoke.

“John, no...” The sadness in Sherlock’s voice broke John a little. _Someone who doesn’t care wouldn’t sound like that._ “Why haven’t you ever said anything?

“Because, I’m no good at this, you know that. Hell, I never even told my fucking therapist how close it got, but I’m sure she knows. But Sherlock, I had finally found something… someone that made it all bearable again, someone who brought the colour back. Before I knew it, my life wasn’t just tolerable, it was amazing, exciting again. I couldn’t risk losing you just because I felt more than you did. You made it clear your opinion of sentiment, Sherlock.” John knew what he needed to say next, not to make Sherlock feel guilty, but because he had to know what the genius meant to him; it was hard to get the words out, for this he stared at the floor between them.

“But then I did lose you, Sherlock. I lost you for two years. That was the absolute worst time of my life. I didn't think I would survive it. The only thing stopping me from joining you was realizing I couldn't do it that to Greg or Mrs. Hudson. Well, at least joining you where I thought you were. Certainly didn’t think you were off trotting around the globe, playing Bond.”

“I was not playing Bond, John.” He said so quietly, John almost missed it. “You don’t realize what I went through those two years.”

“No, Sherlock! I don’t, because you’ve never told me!”

“I didn’t think you would want to hear about it, John.”

“Of course I want to hear about it Sherlock! I think about it all the damn time, you shouldn’t feel like you have to bear it alone. I have no idea what you went through out there or why you wouldn’t tell me; why you wouldn't let me know you were alive.” John almost stopped, but had to add, quietly, “Why you didn't take me with you.”

“Because if they found out I was alive, they would have killed you, John! I could not risk you knowing!!” The doctor jumped at Sherlock’s tone, so loud and harsh.

“Yes, Sherlock, I know, the snipers.”

“No, it wasn’t just the snipers, John!” The detective growled in frustration. “Every single one of Moriarty’s contacts, every member of his network, were given very explicit instructions, for weeks leading up to that day. The snipers were in place to ensure that I did not walk out of that hospital alive. If I had, they would’ve shot you right there and then, along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade; but you know about that. During my time away, I wasn't just taking down his criminal network, I was eliminating the threat against you. Moriarty thought ahead enough to know that I might find a way to fake my death. He made it known, to every single one of his people, that if I was found alive, _ever_ , that you were to be killed on sight. Just you John, not Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade. Their deaths would have upset me gravely, but Moriarty knew that threatening your life was the only thing that could’ve possibly motivated me to just die and get it over with. I found there was even an assassin placed in your vicinity near the anniversary of that day to ensure I wasn’t out there being sentimental, trying to make contact near such a momentous day. She was easy enough to lead away and eliminate once it was discovered who she was and who she had worked for. John, I spent two years eliminating every person that was a threat to your life, every person that was given instructions to kill you. That was the only way I knew I could come home.”

John was stunned, he had no idea the extent of Moriarty's plan and honestly, that Sherlock had done all of it, for him.

“Jesus Sherlock. I had no idea. I thought you were just that determined to beat Moriarty.”

“No John, I was that determined to keep you alive.”

There was a long pause between the two men as they each tried to get their heads wrapped around what the other was saying. A terrible thought occurred to John.

“Sherlock, can you please promise to answer my next question honestly.”

Sherlock eyed him warily but nodded slowly.

“Why did Mycroft have to step in?”

The brunet sighed quietly, lowering his face, looking to be gathering himself.

“The group in Serbia was the very last connection to Moriarty, the very last to have been given the instructions from him. They had somehow managed to stay active, even while all the others fell at my hands. They had heard the rumours of someone eliminating their fellows, the other connections to Moriarty. They had apparently survived by being considerably more vigilant than others had been. I made a miscalculation of their defences; the group was held up in an extremely secluded area far from any populated towns or services. I was captured trying to infiltrate the compound. Fortunately, my appearance was significantly altered at the time, my hair had been cut and dyed, I had a full beard and moustache, and contacts to change my eye colour, so they were not able to identify me immediately. Unfortunately, they were in no hurry to do so, as that would deny them their new plaything. When I did not contact Mycroft for two weeks, a rescue team was sent in. Believe it or not, Mycroft led the charge, and released me himself.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, you went through that? Wait... you said your hair was cut, dyed? But when you came home, it was normal. How long did you take to recover?”

Sherlock looked as if he had hoped John wouldn’t have caught that but continued.” After I was rescued, I spent a month or two in a trusted facility in Serbia. When I was considered fit for travel, I was brought to England, where my care continued at Mycroft’s estate near Cambridge for several weeks.”

John was in shock. _Months of recovery?? All of that... he went through all of that... for me? Oh god._

“Sherlock, I am so sorry. And god this sounds so weak, but... I can never ever thank you enough for what you’ve done, but I can at least start with this; thank you. Thank you for all of it, you amazing madman.”

A quiet settled between them, until John broke the silence.

“Sherlock, please, I have to know because you never answered, why didn’t you want me there tonight? I know when you came up with the plan, I wasn't supposed to be home but like I said, you change your plans all the time.”

“I didn't want you there, because, as we found out, I really was rather obvious tonight, wasn’t I?

“What do you mean, obvious?”

“Everything I did tonight was predicated on the fact that you weren’t supposed to be there. You were not supposed to see my little fantasy, John.”

John swallowed hard at that thought, Mika's earlier words rattling in his brain.

“Fantasy?”

“Yes, again, with the repeating. You say you are not a moron, John, but the evidence you are providing right now says otherwise.”

John looked at him with eyebrows cocked, before a small smug grin spread on his face.

“Yes, John, Fantasy! It's why I took the damn case! I thought for once… I could pretend, since you weren’t supposed to be there to see it. John, dancing is something I’ve always loved. I studied for most of my childhood. It’s a release, like my violin; it allows me a way to let it out; how I feel. I haven’t done it for so long, well before Uni. Just this once, I could dance, and I could tell everyone about you, and how I felt about you, and they wouldn’t know it was all some fiction in my head. You wouldn’t be there to tell me to stop, that it's a Bit Not Good and tell everyone how Not Gay you are. But then you came home, and you dropped so much information in my head about you, it was almost too much. For a moment I hoped, because here you are, telling me you’re bisexual, and offering to help with the makeup. Being so damn kind and good like you always are, but did it mean something now that I knew? But if it all meant something, why had you never said anything before? I figured while you found yourself attracted to men, you just weren’t attracted to me. So, I tried to keep you away, but it hurt so much to say that to you. Please, John I hope you know that; that I didn’t mean a word of it. You are a stubborn man though, I should’ve known better, I should have known you’d follow me. I had a suspicion that you would find me, but then I saw you, and found myself woefully unprepared. I thought I could distance myself, pretend it was a for the case, ignore you sitting there, watching me. But I couldn't, John. I saw you, I saw you looking at me during the first song. I didn't know if I would be able to make it through the second, knowing you were there. I was so scared. Scared of what you thought, though strangely, keeping my eyes on you was the only way I had the strength to make it through. I showed my hand John, and I thought you were disgusted with me.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, no, not at all. God, I thought you ran away after the show because you were the disgusted one, me leering at you the way I was.”

“God no John. I thought I ruined everything. I thought there was no way you would want to stay after seeing that. That’s why I stayed away tonight. I wanted to give you the time to leave if you wanted.”

John leaned over in his chair, scooted to the very edge, and took Sherlock’s hands in his, rubbing his thumbs in slow circles over the back of his hand.

“Never, Sherlock, neither of us are ever running away again.”

John raised their hands together, slowly kissing the knuckles of Sherlock's beautiful large hands. He stopped, swallowed, tried for a deep breath, wanting to take in the smell and the heat of Sherlock so close.

_Breath, dammit, Watson, say it….!!_

He looked up and drank in the sight of the impossible kaleidoscope eyes in front of him.

“Sherlock, I…”

“I love you, John.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there!!! One more chapter (plus epilogue)!! And I promise, I'll make it worth the wait. ;-)
> 
> Again, as always, don't hesitate to leave a comment!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when the boys finally talk...

Life, light, air - everything - blazed around John. His world, which had shrunk down to just him and Sherlock, each on the edge of their chairs, suddenly became brighter, clearer; a wave of indescribable joy crashed over him. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as he stared at the miracle in front of him.

“You mad bastard, of course you'd get it out first.”

Sherlock gave John his best and brightest “sorry-not-sorry” smirk. John thought his heart would explode from the unadulterated bliss coursing through it seeing Sherlock’s keen eyes on him like this. He licked his lips and reached up to cup Sherlock's face with his hand. John felt him lean into his hands like a big beautiful cat. He pressed forward and leaned their foreheads together, slowly sweeping his thumbs across Sherlock cheeks. He ignored the tears threatening to spill and simply took a moment to breath in the brilliant man before him.

“I love you too.”

The words were whispered against Sherlock’s lips before John finally crossed the miniscule gap between them and relished in that first fleeting touch of lips. He was amazed that such a tiny point of contact with another human being could be the single greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. Even with just this - this chaste touch of warm lips against each other, John knew that he would never tire of kissing this amazing man. He pushed forward with a moan and a slight turn his head and he melted into Sherlock's perfect lips. It was everything John had ever hoped for and beyond anything he could have ever imagined. He felt Sherlock reach for him, wrapping his long arms around John’s shoulders, pulling him closer, until there was no more chair for his arse to scoot across.

John rose from his chair, relishing the feeling of Sherlock’s beautiful hands tracing down his sides as he moved towards the other man. He stood in front of Sherlock, carding his fingers through the rich curls he had spent so long fantasizing about. He swore he could feel Sherlock purring under his fingers. “God, do I love you.”

John leaned down to capture Sherlock’s lips again. As he devoured the beautiful man under him, Sherlock slowly fell back against his chair, and John followed, chasing his mouth on the way down. He held onto the back of Sherlock’s chair, caging in the detective and crawled up onto his lap. The two men began taking each other apart with deep, languid kisses. Tongues danced against each other and hands explored freely, without reservation; John finally learned how the skin of Sherlock’s long alabaster neck tasted, Sherlock learned that a slight tug of John’s ear with his teeth pulled a rather debauched noise from John’s lips.

John returned the favour by kissing a fiery trail from the sensitive area just behind Sherlock’s own ear, down his long neck, kissing the freckle right next to his adam’s apple that had fascinated him for years. The moan John felt vibrate under his lips sent heat straight to his cock, and Sherlock’s fervently roaming hands only fueled the fire, running his long fingers up John’s back, down, then up again, holding, squeezing his arms. He let go to graze down John’s sides, before reaching around to rest firmly on the curve of John’s arse. There was a quiet slow heat rising between them, but there was no rush as the two men explored each other; they knew they had the rest of their lives to learn everything.

John finally pulled back, and rested back on Sherlock’s thighs, relishing in the feeling of the detective’s muscles flexing under his arse to support him as he shifted. He couldn’t help the goofy contented grin plastered on his face as he drank in the sight of Sherlock’s flushed smiling face. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair; the younger man leaning his head back and closing his eyes, obviously relishing the feeling. John leaned down to place a soft kiss on Sherlock’s still damp curls. John turned his head and whispered against him. “I have loved you for so long, Sherlock. You have no idea.”

Sherlock leaned back and tilted his head up to look at John. He took John’s hands in his before looking up at him with such an open, vulnerable expression, it nearly broke the older man’s heart. “No John, I do. Though it took me a long time to realize it, I believe have loved you since the night of that first chase, not even forty-eight hours after meeting you. It was in the hallway, when we came back. John, I hadn’t laughed like that in so long, if ever. And you did that. You broke through all my pompous, off-putting bullshit, and you made me feel; made me want to feel, by doing nothing but being your extraordinary self.” He smiled, but stopped and looked down shyly, “You know, at first, I had wanted to cure your limp, just to see if I was right. But when Angelo handed you your cane, and you looked back and smiled at me, something happened. I was happy - ecstatic - and it had nothing to do with being right. It had to do with you - seeing you happy, that big beautiful smile on your face. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to keep making you happy.”

John couldn’t stop the tear of joy that rolled down his cheek as he listened to the unbelievable words coming from Sherlock. “God, Sherlock, I had no idea. Your ‘sentiment is crap’ act was pretty convincing.” He smiled as he put his finger under Sherlock’s chin, raising his face so he could look at him, placing a kiss on his swollen lips as their eyes met. “But I still think I have you beat. When we first met, and I walked into that lab, I was too busy looking at everything, seeing how it had all changed, feeling sorry for myself, the old broken soldier revisiting his glory days, and out of nowhere, you spoke…. Fuck, Sherlock, your voice... My head came around so damn fast, I think it caused whiplash. But what did me in, when I knew I had to know you, had to be a part of your life was when you hit me with something about Afghanistan or Iraq? I have never felt so exposed in my life. But instead of infuriating me as it would’ve had anyone else done it, - with you, it made me want nothing more than to let you figure the rest of it out. Should’ve realized that meant something. Took me entirely too long to figure that out, though.”

Sherlock looked at him with a soft, questioning look.

“It meant I was falling in love with you, you silly git.” John took Sherlock’s face in his hands, gently sweeping his thumb to wipe away the single tear that fell down Sherlock’s cheek, before bringing himself down again to kiss him. John relished in the taste of Sherlock, their tongues exploring, desperate to breath in their love for each other.

John nipped at Sherlock’s swollen lips, tugging his plump lower lip between his teeth, only letting go to begin a trail across his cheeks down his sensitive neck. As John scraped his teeth lightly across Sherlock’s neck, the younger man kneaded the muscles of John’s back, then down to cup his arse. The low moan from John against Sherlock’s ear made the younger man buck up against him, their matching erections pushing against each other. A smug giggle, deep and knowing, escaped from John as he continued worshipping Sherlock’s neck; his calloused fingers tracing down the front of Sherlock’s dressing gown. The two men slowly ground against each other, reveling in the slow heat building between them. John playfully started to tug at the knotted sash of the dressing gown, but Sherlock pulled back to look up at John with eyes hooded and dark.

“John, as fond as I am of the feeling of your gorgeous arse pressed against me like this,” he emphasized with a playful bounce of his legs, and a strong grab at said arse, “If this is going where I sincerely hope it is, I believe we should move to the bedroom.” His hands slowly swept up and down John’s side, just on the other side of being ticklish, his eyes so full of hunger, John could only nod at the sight before him.

John slowly got up, his older body complaining loudly about the shift in position. An awkward apologetic smirk danced across his lips as he reached for Sherlock’s hand. He led Sherlock to the bedroom, their eyes never looking away from each other, John walking backwards with ease, but Sherlock turned them, reversing their position as they approached the door. With his back to the door, he leaned over and kissed John, while John reached around him for the knob.

Once in the bedroom, John felt Sherlock tense for a moment, before he let John’s hand go and turned to crawl up on the bed. He settled himself and looked up at John with a sort of hopeful nervousness.

“John, may I show you something?”

“Of course, love.”

Sherlock patted the space next to him on the bed, before reaching across to search the drawer of his side table. John could see that he took something out, but Sherlock was turned away with his back to him, and he couldn’t see what it was. Before he showed him, Sherlock took his phone from his pocket, fiddled with the screen a moment, then handed it to John. He could see that Sherlock had brought up his music player. He was confused for a moment until he saw the title of the current playlist, simply ‘John.’

John scrolled through the massive list of music, seeing songs that he loved, songs that he had listened to in the flat while cleaning, or working; tons of songs that he had never even listened to around Sherlock, and had no idea how he knew, but still loved. There were whole folders devoted to certain artists, like Pink Floyd, the Beatles, Radiohead, David Bowie, all his old favorites from his youth. There were a few songs mixed in that John didn’t know though. He looked up at Sherlock, not even certain what it all meant, but tears formed in his eyes all the same.

“John, these are all songs that remind me of you. Songs that either I’ve heard you listen to, or songs or artists that I deduced you would like.” Sherlock reached to take his phone from John and replaced it with an mp3 player. It was old, used and battered, beaten; a small outdated piece of technology that had gone through hell and back. “John, this player has only that playlist saved on it. While I was away, this is the only thing I kept with me the entire time. I changed clothes, identities, phones, computers, cover stories, everything - more times than even I could keep count, but this - this stayed with me, always.”

While Sherlock spoke, John turned to him, their fingers weaving together naturally, without thought. John could sense that Sherlock wasn’t done, so he remained quiet, rubbing small circles with his thumb over Sherlock’s hand. After another quiet moment, Sherlock went on, his voice straining to hold, “The true torture I received in Serbia had nothing to do with the physical damage they did to me. The torture is that they took this away. All these songs were you. They kept me going. They kept you with me.

“The songs I performed tonight are on here, of course. I listened to them quite frequently. The lyrics of the first were always something I found myself fantasizing, that you maybe thought of me; silly selfish thought, but it is what it is. But the second. John, that was my mantra. I first heard it in a cafe in Madrid from a group of American tourists, about a month after I left. The line “I’ll use you as a focal point, so I won’t lose sight of what I want,” I heard it and it stuck with me. John, you were my focal point while I was gone. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love, but I did. Your voice in my head is what kept me going, kept me on track through even the worst of it, kept me alive. It was all so I could come back to you.”

“Oh Sherlock. Yes, please, if you will still have me, you are what I have always wanted.”

A choked sound escapes Sherlock, something between a laugh and sob. He reaches up to cup John face, bringing them together again for a long, deep kiss.

“Always John, I will always want you.” They kiss again, for a long minute, before Sherlock pulled back slightly to look up to his blogger’s eyes, taking his hands and holding on dearly. There was a deep wrinkle between Sherlock’s brow, worrying John. Sherlock’s large hands covered John’s, gripping him for support.

“But yes, John, there was physical torture as well, and I need you to see.” Sherlock stood and turned to face John. He slowly took off the dressing gown, letting the soft material drop to the floor. “This is not the same body you remember floating around the flat in a sheet years ago.”

Sherlock stared down at the floor, looking terrified to continue. John had never seen him so vulnerable, so scared, so he took over, wanting Sherlock to know that there was nothing about him that could ever put John off. He was all in. He stood up, reaching up on his toes to kiss Sherlock’s lips softly, before taking the hem of his vest, gently pulling it over his head. John breathlessly drank in the sight before him. No matter the scars, scratches or other “flaws,” Sherlock’s body would always be perfection.

John knew Sherlock would not appreciate being blown off with platitudes though, so he allowed himself to catalogue the myriad of small scars he could see; remnants of his torture and attentions of his captures. John could see one in particular that seemed to wrap around as part of something larger. He almost wished for a moment that he was not a doctor with extensive experience treating severe trauma; he knew exactly what these scars meant. But he knew that was cowardice; if Sherlock could endure experiencing all of it, for him, he could open his eyes and look.

He put his hands on Sherlock’s chest, felt his flushed skin, felt the rise and fall of his breathing, felt the warmth of the man who went through literal hell to protect him, to come back to him. John kissed each mark, slowly leading him back to the bed. Sherlock stopped when he hit the edge. He looked down at John, his face soft, but still worried. He licked his lips, looking between John’s face and the top button of John’s shirt, so shy that John just smiled warmly. He reached, almost uncertain, for the button, and John watched as Sherlock began undoing his shirt, each slip of his buttons through material followed by a kiss to the newly exposed skin. Once each button was freed, he pushed the shirt off his shoulders.

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes full of fear and trust at the same time. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, fingers holding on to John’s hand like a lifeline. He kissed the doctor’s hands before turning gracefully to lay out on the large bed, to show John his back. A wave of grief hit John once he saw the brutal scars of a hard-swung whip crisscrossing his back; evidence of what this amazing man had gone through for him; the pain, the fear he must have felt. “My god, Sherlock, I am so sorry.” He joined Sherlock on the bed, laying on his side, and slowly spread his hands across the textured skin on Sherlock’s back. He sat up and gave his attention the largest scar, the one that started around his front; he kissed it completely, tracing the long line with his lips and his tongue. He felt Sherlock tense for a moment, then take a deep breath and shudder as he let it out. John moved on to the next and the next and the next, and with each kiss, each nuzzle, John felt Sherlock melt underneath him.

John ended on a nasty curled scar right above the crack of his arse, then crawled up the man, kissing up his spine to the back of his neck until we was tickling his nose on the soft curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck. He whispered straight into Sherlock’s ear, his voice a low rumble.

“My god, Sherlock, you are beautiful.”

Sherlock turned his head to meet John’s eyes, a tear silently rolling down his perfect face.

“You make me beautiful, John.”

John lowered himself, so he was again on his side, facing Sherlock. John propped his head up, resting on one hand, as the fingers of the other carded through Sherlock’s curls. Fingertips roamed down the edge of Sherlock’s ear, lightly ghosting across his chin, finally sitting up and cupping Sherlock’s head in his hands. Sherlock rolled to his back, and they kissed, caressed, and explored each other. John did his best to pour everything he had felt for Sherlock all these years; tried to show this man how much he was loved.

John smiled at him, unable to believe that he was allowed this; trusted to see Sherlock so soft and vulnerable. Sherlock quietly whispered, “John what you did for me tonight was astonishing, I cannot thank you enough. In all my preparations, I didn’t concern myself with the makeup. I thought there was only so much I could do. I just don’t see what you see when I look at myself. But what you did was a miracle, you made me believe it, that I could be and am beautiful.”

“Sherlock, you madman, of course you are beautiful,” He laid a soft kiss on his forehead. “You are the most beautiful soul I have ever met. I was only trying to do something to match how amazing you are. But my god, your face, is utter perfection. My job was easy.” Another kiss on the tip of his nose. “Plus, I got to stare at you for a bit, so I may have offered my help with a bit of a selfish ulterior motive.” He bit down lightly along Sherlock’s neck. John felt a shiver run down the younger man.

Sherlock surprised John by rolling them over, so that he was now straddling the army doctor who looked up at him with a bright brilliant smile. “Well, that may have been the same ulterior motives that convinced me to say yes.” His grin turned hungry and predatory and when he met John’s lips again, it was no longer the slow steady kisses of before. Now, their mouths met with a crash of lips and tongues. Sherlock pulled away for the briefest moment. “You have no idea how much willpower it took John… That close. God, I could smell you on me, you were so close.” The hands restrained before now explored with an urgency that wasn’t there earlier.

John understood Sherlock’s desperation, he needed more of this man. He needed to feel him, all of him, and by the way Sherlock was taking him apart, he felt the same way. He reached around and gripped hard, bringing Sherlock’s plush arse down to him. He rutted up against the warm center of Sherlock’s arousal; their hard lengths now pushing against each other in desperate need. Sherlock moaned his pleasure into John’s mouth, his hips rolling slowly, seeking John’s warmth.

Sherlock lifted, and John whined, until he saw that Sherlock was unbuckling his belt, then the two men worked together, allowing John to shimmy out of his tight denim. John was grateful for the relief of pressure against his cock, but Sherlock paused for a moment.

“I was wrong about you and disguises, you know?

“How is that, love?”

“You’re in a disguise every day, with your jumpers and comfortable trousers. You even have me almost convinced some days. Trying to make everyone think how ordinary and fluffy and safe you are. You are anything but. You are dangerous, brilliant, and the most fascinating puzzle I have ever encountered. I will be buying you new clothes John. I’m tired of watching you in that costume.

“Those though,” he nodded towards the pile of jeans thrown to the floor, as he ran his hands over the tented cotton of John's pants, “You can keep those. I could watch your arse in those ridiculous jeans all day long.”

“Well, you’ll need to put me down for a longer coat. Hiding the hard-ons before were difficult enough, now that I know what your arse feels like in my hand? Impossible.” He emphasized his point by squeezing the flesh of Sherlock's arse hard.

“Or what my hand like feels around your cock, John?” he growled back as he gripped the length of John's cock through the material of his pants.

A low moan escaped John’s lips; he reached up and ran his fingers up through Sherlock's curls. He gripped hard to pull the lanky man to him kissing him deeply and was rewarded with an obscene moan pulled from Sherlock’s throat.

“Hmm, that is a very very good thing to know, love.”

They kissed deeply, John's fingers skirting down to the waistband of Sherlock's pyjamas.

“That goes for you too.”

To make it easier, they moved apart, Sherlock rolling to his side with a flop. John giggled at the sight of the proud detective reduced to a desperate horny octopus. They quickly stripped Sherlock down to his pants, both men speechless, their eyes drawn to their matched straining bulges.

As soon as their clothes were stripped away, Sherlock rolled back over John, his leg wrapping around the other man's. A low moan escaped Sherlock’s lips as John rutted against him, Sherlock responded in kind, rolling his hips against John’s thigh. John’s hands reached up into Sherlock’s curls pulling him in for a deep kiss, his tongue sweeping across the perfect swollen lips. Their tongues danced, the flame of passion rising between them.

Sherlock’s long lean fingers danced down John’s neck, down to tickle the hollow of his throat, short nails scraped across his sensitive nipples. John couldn’t help the sharp hiss that escaped through his clenched teeth. Sherlock continued the slow trail down John’s chest, tickling past the soft blond hair around his navel, down down down further to finally palm at his erection. John’s arousal was hard and warm against his hand. Sherlock rubbed against him, before squeezing the sensitive head, feeling the cotton already damp with pre-come.

Sherlock pulled back to look John in the eyes, his voice low and breathy, “I never dreamed that this could be real.” Without looking away, Sherlock reached under the elastic and wrapped his fingers around John’s cock.

“Oh God! Yes, Yes Sherlock, you amazing man, this is real.” John reached over to stroke down Sherlock’s side, his fingers dancing across his alabaster skin as Sherlock continued to slowly stroke his cock. John reached around, digging his sturdy fingers into Sherlock’s perfect ass while rolling slowly into Sherlock’s hand. “This better be real, because now that I have you, I will never be able to give you up.” He met Sherlock’s mouth, kissing with fire, not holding back, giving Sherlock a taste of how much he felt for the younger man.

He tugged at Sherlock’s pants, reaching under the elastic to feel Sherlock’s warm flesh, “These need to go.” He growled into Sherlock’s ear, before rolling gently, bringing Sherlock around to lay on his back, laying a kiss in the center of his chest before sitting back. He took the elastic and slid the boxer briefs down his long lean legs. He took Sherlock’s foot, placed a kiss on his ankle, before starting back up, leaving a trail of heat as he kissed sherlock’s calf, his knees, the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, finally he finding himself kneeling between Sherlock’s legs.

His breath ghosted across the tip of Sherlock’s long cock; John could feel the anticipation trembling through him. John nosed along Sherlock’s length, relishing in the scent of his arousal, thick and musky. John snuck his tongue out to lick at the slit, already dripping, waiting to be tasted. He listened as Sherlock moaned above him, every desperate noise going straight to his cock. John circled the head with his tongue before he wrapped his lips around the hard flesh and sucked, his tongue licking at Sherlock’s sensitive frenulum. He felt Sherlock shudder below him, his hands scrambling for purchase. John took him by the hand, their fingers weaving together, no words needed to speak to each other, his other hand directing Sherlock’s to his hair.

John looked up at him as he continued to bob around Sherlock’s steely length, clenching his hand around Sherlock, before releasing his cock long enough to look into the dazzling aquamarine eyes, blown dark with lust, “Please, Sherlock, whatever you want.” With Sherlock’s cock in hand, he licked a long line up the underside. He rose slightly, and their eyes met, John’s on fire with desire, “But just so you know, my hair is nearly as sensitive as yours.”

This was the encouragement Sherlock needed; he gripped John’s soft hair with a long heavy moan, fingers dragging across John’s sensitive scalp, as John dove back down to take Sherlock’s cock. John made matching sounds of pleasure around Sherlock’s length, the vibrations making the detective keen even louder. John dug his sturdy fingers into the flesh of Sherlock’s hips to keep him grounded.

He was content to get Sherlock off this way, he could get off by the sounds coming from the unraveling man below him alone. But Sherlock had other ideas, and John felt a long drawn out shiver run through Sherlock, and hands scrambling to draw him away from his current task, bringing him up to meet his mouth in a needy kiss. “Not yet, please not yet, John.” Sherlock panted loudly, like it was taking all willpower to get out coherent thought. “Your mouth is deadly, and if you do not desist, this will be over far sooner than I want. Please, I want to touch you, I need to touch you.”

Laying on Sherlock as he was, their cocks settled against each other, John couldn’t resist one last slow dragging rut against Sherlock before rolling onto his back, his hands behind his head. A devious smile quirked at his lips and when he spoke, his voice was low and quiet, the unspoken promise of pure debauched pleasure making Sherlock’s prick twitch with noticeable interest

“Please, by all means, love.”

Sherlock crawled to John, his eyes dark with pure want. He immediately removed John’s pants, throwing them aside without thought, returning to kneel between the doctor’s legs. He turned his eyes to John’s cock, hard and heavy against his stomach. John was amazed to find himself turned on by being laid out under the scrutiny of Sherlock’s gaze, his legs spread wide in invitation. He felt his breath hitch when a wicked grin spread across Sherlock’s face. He was shocked, in a blissful way, when Sherlock took the base of his cock in hand and swallowed down over John’s length in one long devilish go. His lips tightened around the hard flesh, his head bobbing down, then up again to swallow against John’s sensitive head.

Sherlock continued to worship John’s cock, the older man reduced to moans and grunts as he was too blissed out to remember how to speak. After a moment, Sherlock popped off, only to drag his genius tongue down the underside of John’s cock. When confronted with the sight of John’s testicles hanging heavy under his thick cock, Sherlock snuck his tongue out to lick a wide strip from John’s perineum to the base of his prick. He licked and kissed and rolled them on his tongue, all while John panted above him, his fingers running through Sherlock’s soft hair.

Slick from his own sweat and Sherlock’s ministrations, John felt long precise fingers rubbing against his skin to get at the sensitive bundle of nerves hiding inside. John looked down when he felt the pressure lift and Sherlock’s curls tickling the sensitive flesh of his thigh as he pressed heavy kisses along his skin.

Sherlock’s fingers trailed and tickled the short span of space to the sensitive pucker of flesh with his devilish fingers, until John couldn’t stand the tease any longer. When Sherlock found his way back to circle his most intimate area, John relaxed, rocked his hips and pushed back against his finger. A sharp hiss of surprise slipped past Sherlock’s lips as the tip of his finger pushed past the tight ring of John’s hole.

His hand froze, and he quickly turned to look at John, pushing himself to his elbow to see him better. Their eyes locked, and John had never felt more vulnerable than at the moment. He needed Sherlock, in every way two idiots in love could possibly need each other.

“Yes Sherlock, please, I want you, I want to feel you inside me.” John rolled his hips slowly, clenching his muscles, the wide-eyed look alighting Sherlock’s face telling him that Sherlock was imaging those muscles clenched around a decidedly more sensitive area of his body. John’s eyes blazed at him with heat, desperate for the detective to understand his desire.

Seeing the look of mild shock shaded by arousal, John rocked again against Sherlock, pushing down harder, allowing his long slender finger to pierce his hole further.

“All of you.” He reached down, carding his fingers though Sherlock’s curls. The younger man slowly took his hand away and crawled up John’s hot sweaty frame. He leaned over, caging him with finely muscled arms.

“But…” Sherlock started as he searched John’s thundercloud eyes. “I thought you would want to take that... role, at least this first time. Is it not what you would be more comfortable with?”

“Sherlock, my love, what I am ‘comfortable’ with, is doing what feels good and what makes you feel good. And right now, the thought of your long beautiful cock inside me, filling me, fucking me... God, that sounds like it would feel very fucking good right now.” He emphasized his point by dragging his palm against Sherlock’s cock, heavy with arousal, dripping with his desire.

“I want you to fuck me Sherlock. Please.” The plea came out needier than John intended, but right then, he couldn’t be arsed to care. Sherlock dropped to his elbow, his head landing on the scar on John’s shoulder, a rumbling growl of desire vibrating against his skin

Without another word, Sherlock kissed the scar, then crawled down, pulling John’s legs over his shoulder as he went. He dove down to lick a warm stripe across John's twitching hole. His tongue danced and teased, piercing him, loosened the ring of muscle. John let out a litany of praise for the genius’s brilliant tongue.

His long fingers followed, dancing across the puckered flesh. John whispered “Lube?” Sherlock peeked his head up to nod over to the table “Drawer.” He immediately went back to task, reaching out with one arm without looking until John placed the bottle in his open hand.

John heard the quiet flick of the cap, and a few moments later, Sherlock’s slick finger circling his hole. He felt a soft kiss to his thigh before Sherlock slipped inside. He moved, slowly, in and out, allowing John to grow accustomed to the intrusion. A quiet whispered “More” fell from John’s lips. Sherlock complied, adding a second finger; the two dancing, circling inside John. He slid in and out with devious intent, before one last digit joined the others, the slow silky pressure building against John’s most sensitive areas.

John rocked himself against Sherlock’s long pale fingers, the pleasure building, “Please, Sherlock, I'm ready, I need you. God, I need you inside me.”

Sherlock slowed his hand, pulling out gently. He looked up at John, “How do..”

“Like this, I want to see you, my love.” Sherlock leaned over, John already curling his legs around his back. Leaning on one arm for support, Sherlock positioned the dusky tip of his cock at John’s quivering entrance.

Sherlock looked at John and with their eyes locked, John gave him a warm smile and a nod, and Sherlock slowly pushed forward. John felt the pressure against him until finally, the head of Sherlock's cock pushed passed the tight ring of muscle. Sherlock dropped his head down, leaning his forehead against John, each man panting open mouthed at the rush.

Foreheads still touching, John quickly relaxed enough around Sherlock that the younger man began pushing forward slowly. The slow burn and stretch left John reduced to throaty moans of pleasure. Sherlock was quiet above him, deep pulls of air into his lungs the only sound he made, the small wrinkle of concentration between his brows deepening as he pushed forward.

When John felt Sherlock finally seated flush inside him, he hooked his ankles together around the small of Sherlock's back and the hug of his warm legs around him encouraged Sherlock to pull back and look at him, his face warm and flushed with arousal and something akin to awe.

John watched as a single tear rolled down the detective’s chin. His heart felt like bursting, unable to contain the love he felt for his impossible madman.

“God, I love you so much. I feel you, Sherlock, I feel you inside me. Sherlock, you feel so fucking good.”

Sherlock groaned heavy and hoarse before diving in to claim John’s words of devotion straight from his mouth. He kissed John hard, Sherlock’s tongue exploring, tasting, weaving pleasure before pulling his hips back and driving back in with gentle force. The two men grinned like conspirators as the pleasure stoked the fire between them.

John linked his hands around the back of Sherlock’s neck, gripping tight onto the curls and pulling him down, kissed his mouth, before turning and nipping at his neck. He brought his mouth to Sherlock’s ear and found that his Captain’s voice could be just as effective whispered.

“I need you to fuck me, Sherlock. Now.”

Sherlock complied immediately, his transport and all its messy instincts taking over. He pulled back and slammed into John. John felt so full, every nerve ending in his body attuned to Sherlock. The younger man rocked his hips again, John body singing as he felt the hot silky steel of Sherlock’s cock sliding against his sensitive inner walls. The animalistic grunts driven from John put a wicked smile on Sherlock’s face. He pulled out and came back without pause, now building a rhythm, a dance of his prick, in and out, filling John with fire and joy and light and pleasure such as he had never felt.

John felt Sherlock reaching down, digging his fingers into his arse as he drove a relentless rhythm. Sherlock began rolling his hips, with John’s clenched ankles tight behind Sherlock’s back, until he found his mark.

Stars exploded in John’s mind as he felt Sherlock’s cock hit his prostate now with every brutal drive of the younger man’s body. They were both beyond words, bodies messy with sweat, each grunt and pant containing a million meanings, each completely understood by the other.

John felt his pleasure rising, knew he was close, and Sherlock must have sensed it, he reached his nimble, impossible fingers around John’s neglected cock bouncing between them. With supernatural precision, he pumped John’s length. John knew it wouldn’t take long, he felt the wave cresting. At the last of his control began to crumble, Sherlock pulled back, peering down at him with dark feral eyes.

“Come for me John.”

The deep raspy baritone command caused the wave of his orgasm to crest and break over John, sweeping him away in a brilliant flood of pleasure. He let out a loud strangled cry, fingers digging into the muscles of Sherlock’s back as he let loose long streams of pleasure between them. Sherlock milked his pleasure, all while continuing to drive into John’s hole.

John could feel Sherlock holding on for control, his orgasm close, but ensuring John’s first. As soon as he was able, John took a deep breath and hitched his hips.

“Take it Sherlock, take what you need, come for me love, let me see you.”

Sherlock sat up and grabbed John firmly by his hips, pushing and pulling, dragging his pleasure from John. After only a handful of brutal erratic thrusts, John felt the warmth of Sherlock’s release flooding him, filling him with delicious heat. The detective stilled, an impossible moan filling the room as he let go and let the orgasm swell though him.

“Fuck!!”

Sherlock collapsed on his knuckles, staring down at John as the doctor ran his fingers through his sweaty disheveled curls. A wide beautiful smile broke out on Sherlock’s face as he slowly, gently lowered himself to cover John’s body.

“That was… yeah…”

“It was fucking perfect.”

They kissed long and slow, until Sherlock gave a weary sigh, and rolled over, careful as he removed his softening cock from John. Each man gave slight grimace but giggled at the look on each other’s face. John started to roll over to head the loo for a clean-up, but Sherlock stopped him with a soft touch of his shoulder. He rolled off the bed with all the grace of a baby giraffe.

“Please, let me.”

John listened as Sherlock shuffled around in the bathroom, entering the bedroom again after a few minutes. He brought a warm flannel to John, gently poking at the sleepy doctor to move where needed as he gently cleaned him off. John watched him with what he was certain was the worst puppy dog eyes possible.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“No John, this was the least I could do. You took such care of me tonight, as you do every night, every day. How can I ever repay you for that?”

“By letting me love you for the rest of our lives.”

Sherlock did not speak, but the toss of the flannel across the room and the deep heartfelt kiss as he sunk into the bed, folding himself around John were answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say here, except finally this thing earned that "E"! This chapter was a bit longer, but I apparently cannot write concise smut. Ohhhh nooooo.......
> 
> As you can see, in this last chapter, I dropped John’s internal monologue. I’m hoping his actions and words finally spoke clearly enough of his thoughts.


	13. Epilogue

John was pleased to find that their transition from a platonic to romantic relationship was surprisingly easy. There wasn’t much that really changed. There would always be unmentionable things in the fridge, he still checked anything that came out of the cabinet. One immediate change was that John moved down to what was now _their_ bedroom right away. They now had an openness they each had longed for from the other. They were grown men, finally being open and honest with themselves and with each other. When they finally talked, they realized they wanted the same thing.

John was also extremely pleased now that they were finally together, that theirs was a warm, affectionate, expressive relationship. John had always been a demonstrative partner, and at first, he was worried that this would put Sherlock off, considering how cold the man could seem to be sometimes. Those worries were quickly shed the afternoon after they finally fell into each other's arms.

The two men finally dragged themselves out of bed around three the next day, after a slow round of sleepy wake-up sex, in which John showed Sherlock exactly how advantageous having a boyfriend with an intimate knowledge of the human anatomy and the precise touch of a surgeon could be. John was in the kitchen having his tea when Mrs. Hudson popped in. He could tell from the twinkle in her eye that she knew exactly what they had gotten up to in the early morning hours. He felt a blush creep across his cheeks, but before his could say anything, Sherlock emerged from the loo, wrapped in his dressing gown, fresh from a shower. Without pause or hesitation, he came around behind John, leaning in to nuzzle and kiss the side of his neck, before restarting the kettle for his tea.

Mrs. Hudson was near in tears, running over to hug her boys. “I knew you two would get here someday! Finally!” She shooed Sherlock over to sit at the table, while she went about making his tea, begging for gossip. The two men were happy to tell her how it all came about; at least up until a certain point of the night.

They were initially nervous about coming out publicly, with one a self-proclaimed sociopath and the other all but denying any orientation other than heterosexuality. They found that Mrs. Hudson’s reaction was the first of many similar. No one was surprised, and they were getting honestly getting annoyed after hearing exclamations of “Finally!” from nearly all their friends. But above all, everyone was happy that they had finally gotten their heads out of arses and admitted that they loved each other.

John was the happiest he had ever been; he was deeply, madly, insanely in love, with a kind, complex, sexy genius, who by some miracle, loved him just as much. John took every opportunity to show Sherlock how much he was loved; kissing him deeply each morning before work (if Sherlock was awake; a gentle kiss to sleep-tousled curls if he wasn’t’), hugging him without reason, proudly walking hand in hand with the gorgeous detective, whenever the opportunity arose.

They easily and enthusiastically explored the sexual side of their lives. John found himself having more and better sex than he had ever had in his life. The two men made short order out of christening nearly every surface of the flat, in nearly every position and configuration possible. Mrs. Hudson learned that the days of her popping through the door unannounced were gone, after getting a graphic visual one lazy Sunday morning when she opened the door to the kitchen with some fresh-baked scones in hand to find a very naked John pushed against the refrigerator and Sherlock on his knees before him testing his gag reflex.

They also realized, after several deep, late-night conversations about the night at Masquerade that finally brought them together, they both had parts of their lives that they had sorely missed. Sherlock admitted that he missed the thrill and release dance had given him and John missed the creativity being a make-up artist had allowed him and the camaraderie found within the greater LGBTQIA community.

They spoke to Mika, about greater involvement with the club. He welcomed them enthusiastically. Sherlock, after explaining to the other performers that he had deceived them and why, was given an open invitation to come and perform whenever time and opportunity allowed. Milada Joelle quickly rose in popularity, her announced performances selling out the theatre on more than one occasion. John, of course, was there to work his magic; everyone realizing that he was the “Hamish” that Sherlock had talked about that first night.

John also knew that he had the resources and knowledge to do so much more for the community than he had back in Uni. After speaking with Mika, they set up a medical clinic once a month at the club. It was first opened mostly to help the sadly large number of homeless LGBTQIA youth in the city. Word of the clinic quickly spread through the help of Sherlock's homeless network. After only a few months though, they had had to expand to every other weekend, as the clinic was open to all and John found that since many didn’t feel comfortable discussing certain subjects with their heterosexual doctors, the clinic quickly became very busy.

They still had The Work, both private cases and those from NSY. Sherlock was still brilliant, and John was still amazed that Sherlock saw him as his partner in such an important part of his life. They lived their lives as before, with a much-desired new dimension added. But of course, this meant that the two men still drove each other mad some days. John still got grumpy and had a wretched temper, and Sherlock still acted like either a petulant toddler when he didn’t get his way and still let cases drive him to forget the petty things in life, like eating or sleeping, or important dates.

One of these, John reasoned, is why he found himself in the theatre at Masquerade, on his birthday, looking around for Sherlock, who was over an hour late.

For their work at the club, Mika had planned a huge party for his birthday. He had done similar for Sherlock earlier in the year, but on a much smaller scale. Mika understood Sherlock wasn’t as keen on large social gathering as John was.

John was sitting at a table with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s empty seat on his other side, taunting him. He was trying not to get upset or worried that Sherlock was late. He hadn’t done this in a long time, forgetting him in the name of a case. Their relationship had seemed to smooth out some of Sherlock’s crasser behaviours.

He had left while John was getting ready to head to Masquerade for a clinic day. Sherlock had said it was an easy case, something for a private client. He swore it just something to keep him occupied while John manned the clinic before the evening’s festivities. Promises were made that there was no way he would miss the party.

John continued to look around for Sherlock. Despite his worry, he couldn’t help take in the scene around him and smile. He was surrounded by friends; more than he honestly realized he had. There were new faces, many covered in elaborate make up and costumes; some old, like Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Harry, whom he had been working on rebuilding a relationship with since remembering what good friends they really had been in their youth had even accepted his invitation.

While lost in his own mind a moment, a voice suddenly rang out for attention and John looked up to see Mika on the stage.

“May I have your attention, my darlings! Please, have a seat everyone; we have a party to get started!”

Everyone shuffled to their seat, the chair next to John remaining empty. Mika saw him looking and leaned over to get John’s attention, speaking away from the microphone.

“Don't worry John, Sherlock messaged me, told me to get started. He’d be here as soon as he could.”

John couldn't help but get pissed at this. He had his own plans for his birthday, ones that required a certain consulting Detective to be present for, and the wanker couldn’t even be bothered to talk directly to him to let him know where he was?

“Good evening, friends, family, all you dirty moochers just wanting free cake. As you all know, tonight is a very special night. John, why don't you stand up for us?”

He stood up, and turned, giving a wave to everyone. He did his best to keep the irritation and disappointment off his face. He sat back as quickly as he could while still being polite.

“Tonight, we are here for Dr. John Watson. A man, whom I have been known for a very long time, and who, in these last few months, has done immeasurable good here at Masquerade. His work in the clinic has brought much needed resources to some of our most vulnerable. He has given a kind, confidential ear for some our more personal matters. I don’t even want to know the amount of dirt he has on all of us!”

As Mika spoke, a screen lowered from the ceiling. He turned his head and paused, and after a moment, a projector whirred to life, flashing up a photo of a young twenty-something John, caught in a candid shot; bent over, working on Harry’s make up in some tiny crowded dressing room.

“But like I've said. We have known each other for a very, very long time.”

Mika moved to the side, to let everyone get a good view of the collage of old photos scrolling by. They were all of John in his Uni days; at the drag bars surrounded Queens, working in dressing rooms, candid crowd shots at parties, several of him and Harry, laughing and smiling at each other.

“Look at that sweetie-pie up there, God, such a baby face! Who knew we were going to end up with the hot Daddy we have now!!”

John blushed. He watched the pictures scroll by, smiling from seeing all these long-lost moments of his past, but still pissed at Sherlock; hurt that he wasn’t here to be a part of this moment for him. Mrs. Hudson must have seen a shadow cross his face, as she reached out with warm smile and patted his hand sitting on the table.

“Now, we all know that John has an unnatural talent that can make even the worst of us look amazing, but does anybody know, we may have made the impossible happen once, long long ago, and gotten him under the brush? May I present, Ida Dooya!!”

On the screen, to John's amazement and mortification, popped a picture of him, done up in horrible trash drag, from the Halloween fundraiser he had mentioned to Sherlock. His ears, his cheeks, nose, were all ablaze from good hearted humiliation.

“And I don't know if John knows this, but we recorded that night.”

He groaned with embarrassment and dropped his head in his hands as the photo faded to a video of him in a black slinky dress, shimmering sequins flashing, a cheap Marilyn Monroe wig barely hanging on, moving awkwardly on stage in dangerously high heels. As he had mentioned to Sherlock all those months ago, as he danced, the wig flew off at one point.

He couldn’t help but laugh, seeing everyone having a good time at his expensive. He was thinking how much of a shame it was that Sherlock was missing this, when a familiar low voice spoke over the video.

“John, I believe you told me you wore a beehive that night. How dare you confuse that with what is obviously a poor representation of our dear Miss Monroe’s dazzling platinum locks? Jaaawwwnnn… Shall I show you how it's done?”

The screen lifted, and Sherlock strode out, clad in a beautifully low-cut, slinky, flesh tone dress, with rhinestones sewn throughout making him shimmer and shine as he prowled up the catwalk to the stage. It took John only a moment to realize he was in an exact replica of the dress Monroe wore for Kennedy when she infamously sang Happy Birthday to him. To complete the illusion, he wore an upswept platinum wig, and make up done in an exact match to hers.

Sherlock sang Happy Birthday to John, just as his fashion namesake did - breathy, filled with dark, unspoken promises, and lustful hopes and desires. As he moved around the stage, John could see that the dress was exact, and the back plunged low, just as Miss Monroe’s had, exposing the full scope of scars for the audience to see. It was the first time he had ever shown his scars in public. John choked back a tear at the thought of how significant this moment was.

After Sherlock finished singing, he reached out for John, and brought him to the stage. Both men had tears in their eyes, as they reached for each other, and kissed deeply, oblivious to the thunderous applause around them. They broke apart only for Sherlock to lay soft pecks against his ear.

“Happy birthday, my love.”

From the back of the theater, several Queens wheeled out a huge cake, candles lit and shimmering in the dim light of the room. John and Sherlock came down from the stage, hand in hand. John stood in front of the cake, but his eyes were on Sherlock; one wish on repeat in his mind. He kissed Sherlock’s hand, before leaning over and with one powerful breath, blew out all the candles in one go.

Again, his friends - his new family - applauded wildly, several shouts could be heard demanding a speech, others teasing to know what he wished for.

As the partygoers settled down, John looked over everyone, taking in the moment, letting his nerves settle, smiling like a madman at it all.

Finally, he found his voice.

“God, thank you all so much, you have no idea. I hear you out there, asking what I wished for. Funny thing about birthday wishes, mates, my Nan always told me, if you tell anyone what your wish is, it won’t come true, and that… that just can’t happen.”

He turned to Sherlock, looking deep into his eyes, falling more and more in love with every passing second.

“I’m hoping instead, that you can help me make it come true.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and a rich hopeful smile began to spread across his face.

“Sherlock, you have made my life infinitely better by being in it. I am in awe every moment of every day that you found me and that you have chosen me. I have loved you for a very long time. And I hope, that you will let me love you for the rest of our lives.”

He dropped to one knee, taking a small velvet box out of his jacket, cracking it open to reveal the simple titanium band inside.

“Sherlock, will you marry me?”

Sherlock hitched his dress up and lowered himself to his knees in front of John. He took the doctor’s hands in his, and when their eyes met, whispered, “Yes, John, yes, of course!” With tears of joy spilling from both their eyes, their lips met in a soft perfect kiss, the men lost to each other, as if there were not a room full of people around them.

The room erupted in applause and there was not a dry eye in the house; the love between them was palpable. They finally separated, and John rose, his hand out to drag Sherlock up with him. They fell into each other's arms again, kissing and smiling and happier than two people should be allowed to be. John pulled his head back and looked up at Sherlock, still in awe that this miracle of a man was now his fiancé.

Sherlock looked back, a similar look of awe his face, “You mean this, John, you really want to marry me?”

John looked at him, thinking about everything they had been through together, the insane path their lives had taken to finally find themselves here, and how there was nothing that he wouldn’t do for Sherlock.

This beautiful madman was his soul, his heart - his focal point.

He laid a soft kiss full of love and promise across Sherlock’s lips.

“Yes, Sherlock, I do. It's you, it's always you. And now, it always will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few quick notes on the chapter,
> 
> For John’s dress, it would be something like [this](https://www.amazon.com/Marilyn-Monroe-Wearing-Little-Notecard/dp/B004NFJEC8) . I unfortunately lost the link to the original that inspired this little moment. Just imagine a lot sloppier, and more tragic.... 
> 
> If you’re not familiar with the dress and Happy Birthday performance from Kennedy’s birthday celebration in 1962, take a look [here](https://newatlas.com/marilyn-monroe-happy-birthday-mr-president-dress-second-most-valuable/46515/) . Needless to say, she caused quite a scandle at the time, but damn, was she beautiful. 
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> Now, here we are, finally complete!!
> 
> Ok, deep breath…
> 
> Thank you all so much for being here on this journey with me. Again, this is the first fic I decided to put out into the world, and now that I’m done, I am in awe. I have lived with the story for the last six months, and the comments, and encouragement I have gotten from you all has been humbling.
> 
> For someone very very new into public fandom and to writing, you have all been immeasurably kind.  
> I cannot thank you enough!!
> 
> And don't worry, I already have my next fic started...


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